


Lunar Transit

by Callie4180



Category: Moonlighting (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Miniseries March, Sherlock/Moonlighting fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a reversal of fortune, Sherlock Holmes is about to sell one of his few remaining assets, the Baker Street Detective Agency - until clever, handsome employee John Watson talks him out of it. Turns out, Holmes has a gift for the work, and some serious chemistry with his partner.</p><p>For the Miniseries March challenge via Fall TV Season Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enemies Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pilot: Sherlock Holmes, former model, falls into a new life as a detective. A visit from an old university “friend” brings him and his enigmatic but clever (and sexy) new partner, John Watson, their first case together.

A black taxi dropped the tall, beautiful man at the corner. He looked around, blinked once, and shrugged to himself before starting down the street. His dark hair, porcelain skin, bright eyes, and exotic bone structure blended together to create a striking image. Men and women both stopped to stare at him as he passed, but he burrowed down into the thick collar of his long winter coat and paid them no mind. After a few minutes’ walk, a discreet sign next to a freshly painted black door signalled his arrival at his destination. He hesitated for only a moment before he straightened his shoulders and marched in.

An older lady in a purple shirtdress looked up, seemingly unsurprised by his sudden appearance. “Well, good afternoon,” she said with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Baker Street Detective Agency. Are you the ridiculously handsome gentleman Dr Watson is expecting?”

The man stared at her for a moment, then blinked. “Am I the—sorry?”

She gestured toward the closed office door behind her. “Dr Watson said he was preparing for a very complicated case that required a great deal of intensive research, and only to interrupt him if a ridiculously handsome gentleman walked in. Is that you?”

“I don’t—“ The man looked around, confused.

The woman stood and straightened her skirt. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting, mind,” she said airily, stepping out from behind her desk. “Dr Watson’s research seems to involve watching a lot of rugby on telly, and you don’t exactly look the rugby type. But looks can be deceiving, I suppose. There’s all sorts around here. Now, then. Your name?”

The man shook his head to clear it. “Uh…right. The name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m here to see John Watson.”

“Well, of course,” the woman tutted. “Who else would you want to see?” She strode over to the dark wood door and knocked briskly. “Dr Watson?” she called. “There’s a ridiculously handsome gentleman with an improbable name here to see you. Are you decent?” She winked at Sherlock, who stared back, nonplussed.

From the inside, they heard crash of a chair tipping backwards and the muffled cursing of a man being carried with it. Another few seconds of vague thumping passed before the door flew open. A short blond man in jeans and a plaid sport coat stepped into the lobby, rubbing his elbow. He seemed irritated, but somehow also amused.

“Mrs Hudson, you caught me deep in thought.”

Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly. “You were napping again.”

“I most certainly was not. I was deep in thought. They just happen to look the same. Anyway, I would have sworn I heard you say something about a ridiculously handsome gentleman…well. Seems you did. Hello, there.” The man--John Watson, apparently--trailed an openly admiring gaze up and down Sherlock’s body. “Wow. Welcome—um. Welcome to the…”

“Baker Street Detective Agency,” the woman stage-whispered.

“Right. That,” John said. “That’s us. We are them. Sir, please.” He licked his lips. “Tell me there’s something I can do for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Do you greet all your visitors this way?”

John chuckled. “No, no, I don’t. But then, you are far from the typical client, more’s the pity. There aren’t many who earn ‘ridiculously handsome’ status from Mrs Hudson.”

“No?”

“Not at all. Her standards are incredibly high. Right, Mrs Hudson?”

Mrs Hudson was busily dusting in a corner. “Hmm? Oh, right. We’ve only had two truly handsome men visit in the past eighteen months, and neither achieved ‘ridiculous’ level.” She paused, her feather duster hovering in the air. “That ginger fellow came close, but he had a tragic haircut. I just couldn’t get past it. It was a shame,” she sighed. “He had a lovely smile, and a very nice...”

“There! You see?” John interrupted. “Mrs Hudson is my most particular judge, and she has granted you ‘ridiculous’ status. It is our agency’s highest honour.” He gave a little bow. “And in this case, dear client, I am pleased to state that she will get absolutely no argument from me.”

“I see.” Sherlock tilted his head. “Tell me, does this work? The direct approach? The heavy flirting?”

John grinned. “I don’t know. Is it working?”

“Not really, no.”

“Pity. I should try harder, then.”

“Please, don’t. You’ll just be wasting the effort.” Sherlock shook his head. “As it happens, I’m not a client. I’m your employer.” Sherlock lifted his head and fixed him with a look of scorn. “But since we are speaking of the ridiculous, what _is_ that jacket?”

John frowned. “You’re my—wait. You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“Model, celebrity, well-known arsehole Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock gave a little half bow of acknowledgment. “The same.”

John swallowed visibly. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I should have recognized you straightaway. Please, come in. Mrs Hudson, how about some tea for our—boss?”

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s no need, this won’t take long.”

Mrs Hudson fluttered. “Oh, don’t be silly, Mr Holmes, there’s always time for a cuppa. Just this once, mind. I’m your administrator, not your secretary.”

XXX

Sherlock frowned into his cup. “This is a surprisingly excellent cup of tea.”

John draped the plaid jacket over the back of his desk chair before he flopped into a graceless sprawl and threw his feet up on his desk. “I was kidding before, but Mrs Hudson really is a woman of many talents. Reliably fantastic tea is but one of them. She wins employee of the month every month.”

“She’s your only employee.”

“A technicality she exploits with relish.” John grinned. “So to what do we owe the absolutely genuine and not at all rhetorical pleasure?”

Sherlock looked at him, bemused. “You know, you intrigue me, Dr Watson.” He took another sip of his tea. “You’ve managed to somehow solve several diverting, if not truly challenging, cases. So, tell me. How did a man of your education and experience come to be a private investigator? Nothing in your background suggests you’d be a good detective.”

John blinked once, and then looked back at him with pleased surprise. “Wait. Did you—research me?”

Sherlock hummed agreement. “I’d be a fool not to know the people who work for me, Doctor.” 

“Wow. I’ve been the target of an investigation. It’s an interesting feeling, being on the other side.” He smiled coyly. “Let’s see how you did, boss. What did you find out?”

Sherlock cleared his throat dramatically. “John Hamish Watson, MD. Currently residing at 221b Baker Street, the flat above his place of employment.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “Parents deceased. One sister, estranged. Studied medicine at King’s College London, where he excelled, by all reports. Trained at St Bartholomew’s, and then served as a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, veteran of Kandahar and Helmand. Accomplished physician and field surgeon; expert marksman.” Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “That last one might come in handy from time to time, I suppose. Discharged from service after being wounded in--”

“Enough.” John pulled his feet from the desk and sat up straight. His face had gone pale and tight. “You’ve made your point.”

“I rather think not,” Sherlock said coolly. “My question was about what qualifies you to be a detective. You’re a doctor, a veteran, and I suppose could even be described as a war hero. You should be teaching medicine somewhere, or inspiring the next generation of soldiers to, I don’t know, shoot straight and follow orders. Instead, here you are, sitting in central London in a terrible jacket watching rugby matches on TV and occasionally, rarely, solving a case. Why?”

John’s face was flushed. “Is there a purpose to this?” he asked through gritted teeth. “We’ve never seen or even heard from you before. You walked in here today with your nose so high in the air it’s snowing in your brain. You think you know everything about me, and clearly none of it matters to you. So, why the hell are you here?”

“Ah. Right. Well. I’m here on business, of course.” He cleared his throat and nodded once. “Um. There’s no gentle way to put this, so. I’m here to shut you down. Well, to shut down the agency. But there will be shutting down, and you will be part of it.” He took a deep breath. “Right. There it is. I’m…sorry? Yes. I’m sorry.”

John stared at him, shocked. “You’re shutting us down.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “I thought I made that fairly obvious, yes.”

“But…why? You just said we were good at solving cases.’”

“Because you’re losing money.”

“But…” John leapt up from his chair and began to pace. “We’re _supposed_ to be losing money. Aren’t we? We got that message very clearly. We’re a write off. An intentional loss.”

“Yes, that’s true. Well, you were.” Sherlock looked away, a faint flush coming to his cheeks. “But in the past couple of months, I’ve encountered—well, a reversal of fortune, I suppose, for lack of a better term. I find that I now need to reduce my exposure and limit my liabilities.”

“A reversal of fortune. You.” John laughed and rubbed his eyes. “You’re one of the most in-demand male models around.”

A pleased smile played at Sherlock’s lips. “One of the most in-demand models of any gender, actually,” he replied with just a hint of pride.

“Of course. My mistake. I just--” John gestured broadly. “It’s a little hard for me to accept that you’re having money troubles when you’re wearing a thousand-quid coat, and I see pictures of you in your underwear at least half a dozen times on my way to work every day.”

Sherlock smile took on a hint of embarrassment. “Technically speaking, it’s not my underwear. It’s Calvin Klein’s.”

John nodded emphatically as he stepped around the coffee table. “Yes. Good point. You’ve worked for them for years. Just renewed your contract for a record setting amount, too. Saw it myself on the telly.” He patted the set as he passed in his agitated circuit. “They had your picture on a bloody cake at the celebration. Before I saw the story, I thought you were just a mannequin, but no! There you were, eating cake with your own face on it. And you have to close us down now because…” He stopped to face Sherlock directly. “Why again, exactly?”

“A reversal of fortune.” Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Look, it’s a difficult situation, and I’m not obligated to explain it to you. Obviously you’re attached to your position here, and I’ll give you a healthy severance, but…”

John slumped. “You’re shutting us down." 

“Yes.” Sherlock stood. “Tell your staff you’re closed as of Friday, and I’ll give them an extra fortnight’s pay.”

“You mean Mrs Hudson. Tell that kind old lady she’s out of work. You want me to do that.”

Sherlock winced before he could stop himself. “I do apologize, but it can’t be helped. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, Dr Watson.”

John blinked. “I did not just have an underwear model quote Shakespeare at me while firing me. This is not real life.”

“Technically speaking, I’m not an underwear model,” Sherlock sniffed. “I’m a model who occasionally poses in underwear. It’s an important distinction. And the mannequin thing was rather harsh, by the way.”

John put a dramatic hand over his heart. “Oh, I’m ever so sorry.” Then he shook his head and laughed once, a humourless bark. “You know what? Sod this. Sod all of this.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “What are you doing right now?”

Sherlock looked around, confused. “I’m shutting you down.”

“No, I mean after that part.”

“Um…nothing, really. Why?”

John gestures to the office door. “If you’re going to screw me, you’re buying me a drink first. After you.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Any chance of you changing the jacket?”

XXX

The pub was somehow both dark and well lit. Jewel tones from the stained glass windows painted the tables and stools with light. John and Sherlock manoeuvred through the crowd to a tall table in the corner. As they settled in, John caught the eye of the bartender and, smiling, motioned for drinks. The bartender frowned briefly, but then nodded back slowly and started to pull two pints.

“You’ve had sex with him,” Sherlock noted calmly. “At least twice.”

 John jumped as if shocked. “What? Did Paul…? Do you…? How could you possibly…”

Sherlock sighed. “If you could see your way clear to the end of even one sentence, it would be ever so helpful. But whilst you search for words, shall I go collect the drinks and confirm my theory?”

“God, no. I’ll go. But you’re still buying. Got a wallet in that coat?”

Sherlock slid a twenty-pound note across the table, and watched John’s progress toward the bar. Paul’s greeting was definitely chilly, despite John’s easy friendliness. He watched John pick up the glasses, leave a coin on the mat and head back to the table. Behind him, Paul snarled and started scrubbing the already gleaming bar with exceptional vigour.

John reached the table and set the glasses down. Sherlock picked up his drink, took a sip, and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. John sighed. “All right, yes. You’re right. We slept together. Twice.” He carefully didn’t look back toward the bar. “I think he wanted it to be more, actually, but—“

“You don’t have to explain,” Sherlock cut in, hurriedly. “Please don’t, in fact.”

John shot him an abashed grin. “Sorry. But, really—how did you know?”

“It wasn’t a difficult deduction.” Sherlock smirked and looked back at the bartender, who was still scowling in their direction. “Paul, was it? He was glad to see you come in and he obviously recognized you immediately. It’s been a while since he’s seen you; his expression was one of delighted surprise. He looked you up and down, and his gaze was extremely familiar. Further, his eyes lingered at very particular places.” Sherlock tilted his head, thoughtful. “Is it a birthmark on your left thigh, or a scar?”

“Scar. Rugby injury,” John replied automatically, before frowning. “Hey, wait—“

Sherlock nodded, even as he brushed aside the complaint. “He wasn’t happy to see me behind you, that much was certain, and even now, he’s getting angrier the longer we talk. He slammed those pint glasses down hard enough on the bar to break.” Sherlock took another sip, considering. “You know, he might completely erase the bar if he doesn’t ease up on the angry cleaning.”

John pursed his lips. “How’d you know it was twice?”

Sherlock shrugged. “People are shy after one night stands. They aren’t sure if the other person was really attracted to them or if it was ‘just sex,’ especially if alcohol was involved. Usually, they pretend it didn’t happen at all until the other person somehow acknowledges it. The second time, though, is more personal. Your bartender was confident you’d enjoyed it. He looked almost proud. And I’ll tell you something else: until he realized we were here together, he thought you were back for another round.”

John was staring, open mouthed. “And you got that from walking into a pub.”

“Well, yes.” Sherlock looked down at the table, suddenly abashed. “I’m sorry, it was probably too personal, wasn’t it. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. And I certainly don’t mean to damage any potential…” He waved his hand toward the bar. “You know. I can leave, if you’d like.”

“Any what? Oh. Oh, no, there wasn’t going to be another--no. I mean, it was good, but-- God, this is awkward.” John covered his eyes, but then peeked between his fingers. “You could have been wrong, you know," he said, voice muffled. "You could have gotten any of that wrong, and I might have been mortally offended. You could be nursing a black eye at this very minute.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock allowed. “But as it happens, I was entirely right.”

John dropped his hands. “And how are you so sure?”

“Because you were unable to finish a sentence.” Sherlock smiled broadly. “Well done you, pulling the bartender. You must have been wearing a different jacket that night. Now come on, don’t be embarrassed. Drink up,” he said, sliding John’s pint across the table.

John took a sip, and then another, longer drink as he thought. “Honestly, that was amazing,” he said, licking his lips and beginning to chuckle.

“You think so?” Sherlock said, mild surprise in his tone.

“Yup. Absolutely extraordinary.”

“Hmm. People don’t usually say that.”

John arched a curious eyebrow. “What do they say?”

“Well, if I’m on a job, they bite their tongues and ask tightly if I could _please_ get back on set before they lose the light.”

“And when you’re not on a job?” 

Sherlock took another sip of his beer, affecting nonchalance. “I get called a freak or a ‘right bastard.’ Sometimes they take a swing at me.”

John’s smile faded. “Does that happen often?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not really. I don’t usually deduce people out loud. Not anymore. It’s not worth the effort.”

John looked at him curiously. “So why’d you do it for me?” 

Sherlock looked down into his drink. “You know, I have no idea.”

A soft smile painted one side of John’s mouth. “Well, maybe…” he started, but before he could continue, there was a shout from several tables away.

“Christ, is that Sherlock Holmes? There’s a sight for sore eyes!” A large man, slightly drunk, mussed and wrinkled but in an expensive suit, stumbled across the pub and pushed his way between them. He threw an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here! How’ve you been, freak?”

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Hello, Sebastian," he said, with resignation. 

XXX

Sebastian dragged Sherlock through the pub door and down the street, well away from curious ears. They stopped on the sidewalk half a block away from the entrance. The night had settled in, and it was cold. Sherlock wrapped his thick coat around him.

“It’s a lucky thing, seeing you out tonight. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Sebastian said. “You’re a tough man to find.”

Silently, Sherlock pointed to the bus kiosk across the street, where a large picture of his face frozen in ecstasy announced a new men’s cologne.

“Oh, you know what I mean, Sherl,” Sebastian said, whinging. “We were mates, right? More than, even. I helped you out when you needed….you know.” Sherlock frowned and looked away, but Sebastian blundered on. “You could always figure things out, see things others couldn’t. You got me out of trouble when that professor thought I was cheating. And now I need—“ he swallowed hard. “I need your help. I’m being--I’m being framed, I swear it. Someone is embezzling from the bank, and I think they’re setting me up to take the fall.”

Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t you with Shad Sanderson? I heard you worked on the trading floor, or something.”

Sebastian nodded. “I manage the trading floor, actually,” he said, his chest puffing a little despite his concern. “Started with them straight out of uni and worked my way up. Self-made man.” Sherlock cocked a sceptical eyebrow, and Sebastian’s smile faded. “Anyway. It’s a competitive group. I’ve made quite a lot of enemies.”

Sherlock regarded him coolly. “And the bank doesn’t have its own internal investigators? Seems to me that this would be an easy thing to disprove.”

Sebastian shook his head desperately. “It’s not, though. I think they might have bought off the investigators. These guys are smart, and they really want to bring me down.” He clutched at Sherlock’s arm. “I could just have you come round the offices and poke around. No one would suspect anything. They’d just think I was showing you off.” He looked down at his hand. “No one believes I’m friends with a supermodel.”

Sherlock snorted incredulously and shook his arm free. “You aren’t. We aren’t _friends_ , Sebastian. Remember? You made that very clear before that parents’ weekend, years ago.”

Sebastian flushed. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Oh, Sebastian.” Sherlock chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “I remember _everything_.”

Sebastian flinched, and his face fell. “You…won’t help me, then.”

Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t say that.” He looked at him closely, his expression changing to one of speculation. “As it happens, I own a detective agency. If you want to hire us to investigate, I suppose we could look around a bit. Discreetly, of course.”

Relief flooded Sebastian’s face. “Yeah, that would be…that would be great, actually. Discreetly. Yeah.” He looked up at Sherlock’s face. “I didn’t know you were a detective,” he said, impressed.

Something indefinable, a mixture of pleasure and fear, flashed through Sherlock’s eyes before he could wish it away. “Most people don’t,” he replied with a false smile. “It’s hard enough to go undercover when everyone knows your face.”

XXX

“I can’t believe you got us a case. In a pub. You hadn’t even finished your beer, and boom! Case. I thought you were kidding.” John looked around the impressive foyer of the investment bank building. “This building is amazing. You know, when you said your friend worked in a bank…”

Sherlock gestured in the direction of the lobby escalators. “He’s not my friend, and it is a bank. I wasn’t joking.” They stepped onto the moving staircase and started to ascend, and Sherlock looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “He doesn’t want anyone to know we’re investigators,” he said in a low voice. “We’re just visiting. He’s apparently bragged about knowing me, which is not surprising. He’s very good at getting ahead on other people’s efforts.”

“So you know this guy well?” John asked.

Sherlock hesitated. “Well enough,” he said carefully. “His name is Sebastian Wilkes. We were at uni together. My mother knew his mother from some social something or another, so they made sure that we met.” He looked up to check their progress toward the floor above. “I helped him get through chemistry, saw him at a few parties. It was close enough to friendship to count, I suppose.” He shrugged. “He married rich and well connected. He’ll tell you differently, but it’s no coincidence that he’s management here.”

“Hmmm. All right. So what’s our plan here?”

“Well, I suppose I’ll play the stereotypical mindless idiot supermodel college friend, and you—look around. You know. Detect.” Sherlock stopped to think a moment. “Maybe you could, you know, flirt with the receptionist, see if you can find anything out there?”

John shrugged. “Worth a try, I suppose.” He smoothed a hand through his hair. “I am known for my irresistible charm, after all.”

“Oh, of course. I won’t even wish you luck. It would be insulting,” Sherlock murmured, as they stepped off the escalator. He looked him over quickly. “At least you changed your jacket. You might almost pass for someone with self respect.”

John flashed him a quick grin. “Thanks. One question: are you sure you can pull off the stereotypical mindless idiot supermodel college friend act?”

Sherlock turned to him with a sudden bright, full wattage smile and almost comically wide eyes. “Absolutely! Don’t you think this building is amazing?“

XXX

John was amused to note that Sherlock’s rich voice carried easily through the glass door of the conference room. As he perched on the corner of the receptionist’s desk, John could watch him holding court, surrounded by several eager, smiling people of various ages and genders. John smiled and chatted with the shy but really rather lovely young woman, keeping an eye on Sherlock’s act at the same time. Head tossing, rolled eyes, cheeky grins, winks, lip licking – it was impressive. The large, awkward man standing next to Sherlock mumbled something and Sherlock reared back with laughter, eyes bright, one hand reaching out to playfully swat and then rest lightly on the man’s sleeve. The man beamed. That unattractive man must be the client, John mused. His jacket didn’t fit and he needed to invest in a decent haircut, he thought. He didn’t look the investment banker type at all. Sherlock’s hand was still on the man’s arm, and John felt a flash of jealousy. He fought to suppress a snarl and turned back to the receptionist, who was helpfully showing him the company directory.

“And have you worked here long enough for them to realize what a jewel they hired?” he asked with a quickly summoned twinkle. She blushed. In the next room, Sherlock was giggling. It was a delightful, hateful sound.

XXX

John stood at the bottom of the escalator, watching as Sherlock blew a kiss to someone behind him and started his descent. He looked away and then up to the ceiling, visibly steeling himself. It took him a moment, but fortunately the escalator moved slowly. By the time Sherlock reached the bottom landing, John was wearing his usual confident grin.

“Well, I got a list of the people on the security team, the history of the management of the trading floor, and a thorough review of the last season of Britain’s Got Talent. Did you get anything? Besides a bunch of phone numbers, I mean,” John said, innocently lifting his brows.

“I got the security code to the records room, bios for all the traders, a copy of Sebastian’s expense reports, and a good look at his schedule. Sebastian just got back from Hong Kong. We’re supposed to meet him back at your local to discuss our findings tonight.” He frowned. “I wasn’t aware four numbers constituted a ‘bunch.’” He briefly looked John up and down. “And don’t be modest, you also got an invitation for drinks.”

“Oh, for God’s…” John took him by his elbow and steered him through the thick glass doors. Outside and around the corner, he stopped and took a deep breath. “That act--is that the way—do you usually—“

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Pretend I’m a moron?”

John blew out his breath. “Yes. That. Exactly. Do you do that often?”

“Well…” Sherlock thought for a moment. “When we met, you called me a ‘well-known arsehole.’ Remember?”

John looked away, uncomfortable. “Yes. Um, sorry.”

“No, you’re not. It was completely accurate. But you should know, that reputation was earned in the moments when I wasn’t pretending to be…” He motioned to the buildings behind them. “I’m a model, John. People expect a certain set of behaviours. Sometimes I use that to my advantage. And sometimes…” He looked away. “Sometimes being myself is not worth the fight,” he finished softly, suddenly distracted by something down the street.

John took note of the change in tone. “Hey…I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. I was just surprised to see you like that, is all. It wasn’t—you, I guess.”

“Mmm hmm.” Sherlock was staring in earnest now. “John, remember how I said I saw Sebastian’s schedule? I need to ask you something important.”

“Anything.”

Sherlock flicked a sidelong gaze his way, and then gestured with his head down the street. “If someone, a bank official, say, had a luncheon meeting with an important client, would he change into cheap jeans and a sweat shirt before leaving the building?”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Probably not—“ he said slowly. “Maybe the plans got changed at the last minute?”

“Possibly. At the very least, the venue.” Sherlock started walking slowly down the sidewalk, shifting his head to keep his target in view. “But still, one probably wouldn’t wear a black skull cap.” 

John followed after him. “I would think not.”

Sherlock stopped at the corner newsstand and peeked around the edge of the display. “One most likely wouldn’t take a black duffel bag apparently loaded with heavy, irregularly shaped objects.”

John slid up beside him. “Agreed.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed just a bit more. “Ohhh,” he breathed, and John shot him a sharp look. Sherlock scooted over to the corner and raised his arm. “I’m confident you’ll concur that one _certainly_ wouldn’t have a long knife stuck in his big ugly boot. He just hailed a cab. We’ve got to catch up to him.” A black taxi pulled over immediately. “Come on, John,” he said, opening the door. “The game is on!”

XXX

“The Lucky Cat? Seriously?” John peeked from around the concrete pillar to consider the small, dingy shop across the street. “I’m guessing it’s not a pet store.”

Sherlock slid up behind him. “No, I think not. I think it’s exactly what it looks like, a Chinatown souvenir shop.” He frowned down at the notebook in his hand. “There must be something more to it, though. Sebastian had four receipts for cab rides to this address last month, but none back.” He turned the page. “He had appointments in the office after, though, which it appears he kept, so he either walked back or took the tube.”

“Sebastian doesn’t look the sort to enjoy long walks, and besides, that bag looked heavy. Why wouldn’t he need a cab back to the office?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and nodded toward the shop. “Because the bag isn’t heavy on the way back. Look.”

As they watched, Sebastian stopped on the sidewalk outside the shop and folded up the now empty duffel. He looked up and down the street, and then, with a satisfied smile, headed toward the Leicester Square tube station.

“Well. That’s weird,” John said with surprise. “What happened to the stuff in the bag? He just left it there?”

“Oh. Oh! All those trips abroad--that bastard.” Sherlock shook his head, and then flipped back a few pages in his notebook. He traced down a page with a single finger, sharply nodding his head once. He closed the notebook and slid it into his pocket as he headed for the street. “Let’s go. Leave this to me.”

John looked after him, exasperated. “No problem, since I have absolutely no clue what we’re doing.”

XXX

A loud metal bell jangled as they entered the shop. A casually dressed Chinese woman stood behind the counter, shrewdly sizing them up. A large shelf of the decorative namesake cats in various sizes stared out at them from the wall behind her.

“You!” she said, gesturing toward John. “You want lucky cat?”

“Um…” He looked to Sherlock, who was looking back at the woman with a very serious expression but otherwise gave him no direction. “No, thank you?”

“Hmph,” she said, turning away. “Your wife, she would like.”

“Actually,” Sherlock said as he stepped to the counter, his voice suddenly a seductive purr. “Perhaps you could help us with something else.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. She reared back, surprised, but then smiled at him with approval. From below the counter, she produced a fob containing a single large key. She handed it to Sherlock and motioned toward a curtained doorway.

“Upstairs, please, gentlemen,” she said, suddenly speaking in an impeccable British accent. “He should have given you the code. Tell me if you see something you like. All prices are upon request, and volume discounts are negotiable. We’ll have more coming in next week. Special orders are available.” She motioned toward the doorway again. “I’m off soon to a meeting, but my daughter will be here when you come down. She does not know about all of this, so please reserve your questions for me. Take your time.”

Sherlock smiled his thanks and headed for the doorway. John followed quickly after him, a confused look on his face. “Code?” he whispered. “Sherlock, what--?”

“Shh. I’ve got it,” came the murmured reply. “It was in his calendar. Come on.”

Behind the curtain, a set of narrow stairs led to an attic. Sherlock motioned to John to wait, climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped in. John heard the warning buzz of an alarm, and then several beeps as it was disarmed. Then light spilled from the room into the hallway. “John?” Sherlock called, a smile in his voice. “Come on up. You’ll like this, I think.”

John quickly climbed the stairs and stepped in to find a large room filled from floor to ceiling with antiques and art. A couple of large wardrobes stood opposite each other in the corners, and the windows were blacked out with paint. Two large, ornate ceramic vases stood just inside the doorway. Several paintings were propped against the walls, and a thick table held a small, ornately carved chest and several lacquered boxes of various sizes. A glass-fronted display case held necklaces, rings, earrings, ceramic combs, and other jewellery. A bookcase held several delicate clay teapots and cups. There was a musty smell to the air, and dust covered every surface.

John closed the door behind him and gave a low whistle. “Well, well. It would appear our boy is a bit of a collector.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s a bloody smuggler, is what he is. These are all stolen. Look.” He stepped to the display case and pointed with a long finger to a jade hair pin. “That was reported missing from a museum in Shanghai five months ago. It’s worth nine million pounds.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Sorry? I must have heard that wrong.”

“I doubt it. Those kind of numbers tend to clear the ears.” Sherlock motioned around the room. “Almost everything here would be easy to pack in luggage, or hide in a shipping box. He does this all himself, on his own.” He chuffed a short laugh. “Truly a self-made man.”

“Wow.” John shook his head. “So, why hire us, then? What’s his game?”

“Hmm. Good question.” Sherlock walked over to a box and started rummaging. “My god, most of this stuff is worth a fortune. This silk is from the nineteenth century, and he’s keeping it in a damp London attic in a _cardboard box_.” He sniffed. “Idiot.”

John grinned. “Offending your aesthetic sensibilities, is he?”

“Disrespecting artistry, more like.” Sherlock looked up at John. “Let’s think this through. He showed me the department records. He’s right that someone is embezzling, and it’s not him. It’s pretty obvious.”

“Well, if it’s obvious, again, why us?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Because he wants us to make a big deal of it. Despite all his whinging about discretion, he wants this to hit the news. He needs a distraction.” He looked the room over again. “Maybe someone is getting close to putting this together.”

John turned to face him. “Or, maybe, he’s about to make a move. Bring in something bigger.”

“Maybe.” Sherlock leaned against the doorway and rubbed his eyes. “The question now is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, that’s rather plain, isn’t it?” John looked confused. “This has to be brought to the attention of the authorities.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, but which authorities? The evidence locker at New Scotland Yard isn’t the best place to preserve delicate antiques, assuming they even survive the raid. We need to think…”

His ruminations were interrupted by the echo of the front door bell. A moment later, the loud booming of Sebastian’s voice greeting the shopkeeper’s daughter floated up the stairs.

“Oh, hell, Sherlock,” John whispered. “He’s not going to be happy to find us here.”

The rumbling voice moved closer, and the bottom stair creaked. Sherlock ran to one of the windows and tested it. “Damn! It’s no good, they’re sealed.” He whirled around and his gaze fell on a large wardrobe in a corner. “Quick! In here!”

The two piled into the wardrobe, and John pulled the cabinet door closed behind them just as the door to the room started to open. “I know I left them here,” Sebastian mumbled, and from inside the closet they heard the rustle of boxes being opened and heavy objects being shoved around. John watched Sebastian’s movements through the narrow slot between the doors, and Sherlock pressed up behind him to look over his head.

“Left his keys, the idiot,” Sherlock breathed into his ear, and John was suddenly made aware that he was standing back to front in a small, dark space with arguably one of the most attractive people on the planet. His heart, already beating quickly, started to pound, and his palms started to sweat. He could envision any number of ways this situation could end badly, and far too many of them involved his trousers.

As well as they could, the two of them watched Sebastian search the room. John tried to focus on the risk of their situation, on the value of the artefacts, on yesterday’s rugby scores; on anything but Sherlock’s warm breath on the back of his neck, or his exquisite lips just inches from his ear, or his fantastic smell oh god could a person smell like that and walk the streets, was that even legal… 

Sherlock shifted minutely behind him, and John felt Sherlock’s hand brush accidentally along his waist. He bit his lip to stop a whimper, but other parts of him were not so easily subdued. Meanwhile, Sebastian’s search drew him closer to their wardrobe, and their discovery seemed imminent. John closed his eyes, held his breath, and resigned himself to certain mortification of one kind or another.

Then, “Ha!” Sebastian spotted his keys resting next to a box across the room and dove to grab them, triumphant. Happily whistling out of tune, he left the room, slamming the door behind him. John and Sherlock listened closely for a few moments, finally relaxing at the loud jangle of the shop door opening and closing.

“Oh, thank god,” John said as he tumbled out of the cabinet. He was breathing quickly, and was careful not to make eye contact. A flush painted his cheeks, and he kept his body turned away, toward the wall. “I’ll just—right. We should--I’ll go, um, downstairs and, yeah. See if—right. Um. Come down when you’re ready.” He fled the room, his steps on the stairs fast and furious.

Sherlock sighed deeply in relief. He fanned his face and subtly adjusted his trousers before leaving the room.

XXX

Later, Sherlock waited outside the pub, leaning against the wall and watching idly as the light changed from the subtle grey of twilight to the deeper blue of evening. Sebastian was late. When the cab deposited him at the kerb, breathless and rumpled as usual, it was very nearly dark.

Sherlock pressed a button on his phone, and waved to catch Sebastian’s attention.

“Buddy!” Sebastian said, scurrying over. “Sorry I’m late, hell of a day.”

“Hmm. No doubt,” Sherlock said. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “You have quite the operation there.”

Sebastian chortled. “Tell me about it. After you left, we got word that we landed a major account we’ve been working on for over a year. That, plus fiscal year end, and the usual trading…”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupted. “Your office is most impressive. But that’s not what I meant. I was referring to the Lucky Cat.”

Sebastian paled. “Sorry? The what?”

Sherlock’s phone chirped. He checked the screen quickly, and then straightened up off the wall. “The Lucky Cat, Sebastian. It’s being raided as we speak.”

Sebastian’s face froze in shock. “How did you—when—“

Sherlock looked him up and down once, shook his head sadly, and sighed. “Go home, Sebastian,” he said quietly. “I can’t help you with this. Call your lawyer and confess to your wife. The authorities are coming for you, and you’re not a very good liar. Your best bets are either to come clean or to run, and you’re not a very good runner, either.”

Sebastian’s eyes suddenly flashed, and he took a menacing step forward. “You can’t help me out, or you won’t? Too good for me now? You could make up a story that would explain all this away, but you won’t get your hands dirty, will you.” He sneered. “You were singing a different tune years ago, when you’d do anything for a hit. Remember? I sure do.” He stepped forward again, licking his lips. Sherlock looked away, disgusted and ashamed. “Are you willing to see that all made public? The untouchable, sexy, flawless Sherlock Holmes,” he snarled with contempt. “What would your employers think? What would your _fans_ think?”

Sherlock stepped back, only to find himself trapped against the brick wall behind him. He braced himself and kept his head held high. “The key words there are ‘years ago,’ Seb,” he said calmly. “I’m clean now. Anyway, there’s nothing you could say that would shock anyone I work with. The modelling world is a completely different moral environment. It’s not a university chemistry lab, or--” He smirked. “A bank trading floor.”

Sebastian growled and threw his large arm around Sherlock’s neck in a headlock. To a casual observer, it looked like a friend’s playful embrace, but Sherlock immediately began to struggle. “Enough, Sebastian,” Sherlock said with a cough. He tried to slide out from under the man’s arm, but the man only clutched him tighter.

Just then, John banged through the pub door, looking up and down the street. “Ah, there you are, Sherlock!” he yelled loudly, causing two or three curious heads to turn. “I wondered where you had gotten to.” John took in the pained look on Sherlock’s face, and quickly registered the aggression in Sebastian’s position. His left hand clenched.

“Sherlock? Would you mind introducing me to this…person?” John asked lightly, but with a glint of steel in his eye.

The man turned a baleful glare toward John. “I’m just an old friend. I knew Sherl here in uni. We were…friends, right, Sherl? Real…close…friends.” Each word was punctuated with a squeeze of Sherlock’s neck, even as Sherlock struggled to pull away. “I was just reminding him of the good old days, in fact. And who the hell are you? Wait, let me guess,” he smirked. “You’re his dealer.”

“Sebastian, please…” Sherlock wheezed.

John smiled a dangerous smile. “Come again?” he said softly.

“You’re his dealer, right? I mean, come on. No one who looks like this—“ he squeezed Sherlock’s neck one more time. “—would be with anyone who looks like you.“ He sneered and looked John up and down. “Not unless there was something more to it. You don’t dress like you have money, so it must be drugs. Am I right, Sherl?” He suddenly released his arm, and Sherlock stumbled away, holding his throat and coughing.

“No, no, it’s not like that, Sebastian,” he said, swallowing hard. “John here is my—he’s my—” He stopped, still breathing hard, obviously searching for the right words.

“He’s your _what_ , darling?” Sebastian said, a taunt in his voice.

“He’s my…colleague,” Sherlock finally rasped out.

John tilted his head and gave Sebastian a bright grin. “Actually, I’m his friend,” he said, and then he reared back and hit him, once, hard.

XXX

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the pub, still rubbing at his neck, and considered Sebastian as he sat on the kerb several yards away, handcuffed to a lamppost and holding an icepack to his nose. “You know, John,” he said conversationally. “You have quite the gift for making a first impression.”

“Why, thank you, Sherlock,” John said, as he walked up behind him, rubbing his knuckles. “One does like to be memorable.”

“I would say something about your usual choice of attire being seared on the retinas of the unsuspecting and thus unforgettable, but it would be uncharitable to insult someone who just committed assault in defence of my honour.” Sherlock turned to face him. “How’s your hand?”

“It’ll heal. It’s not the first punch I’ve thrown, though it was easily one of the most satisfying.” John looked him in the eye. “What was all that, anyway? I know you said he was a crook, but what was all that about the drugs? How do you really know this creep?”

Sherlock flushed and looked away. “We all have things we regret in our pasts. John,” he murmured. “I had some wild times at uni, there are some relationships I’d like to forget.”

“Okay…” John nodded slowly. “And now?”

“Now, I am _clean_ ,” Sherlock said with some heat. “It hasn’t been easy, considering the industry I’m in, but I haven’t used in a while.”

“Are we talking years? Months?” John asked.

“Why are we discussing this?” Sherlock asked abruptly. “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because I just hit someone for saying something that might actually have some truth to it?” John threw back.

Sherlock stared at him for a long minute. “Weeks,” he said finally, his lips barely moving. “I’d been clean for years, but I relapsed. I’ve been sober again for a couple of months.”

John nodded, solemn. “Thus your reversal of fortune,” he said, matter of factly.

Sherlock looked at the ground for a long, hard minute. “It was my brother. He found out I was using again and forced me into rehab. While I was locked away, he got a conservatorship and put all my money in trust.”

“How the hell did he keep that out of the papers?” John asked with wonder.

“My brother is a very powerful man. He works in the government. Sometimes I think he _is_ the government.” He looked up and met John’s gaze full on. “While I understand his motivations, I deeply resent his treating me like a child.”

“You think he’s trying to protect you?”

Sherlock snorted. “Trying to control me, more like.” 

John nodded slowly. “Was he the one who told you to shut the agency down?”

“No, that was my solicitor, actually.” A soft grin stole across Sherlock’s face. “My brother doesn’t know about the agency.”

“Doesn’t know?” John asked, surprised. “But you just said…”

Sherlock shrugged. “I—well. I always wanted to be a detective. I bought the agency on a whim a few years ago, thinking maybe someday, when I was ready to retire, I’d be able to work there. A foolish dream, I know.” He held up a forestalling hand and looked into John’s face, his expression earnest. “I’m not implying the work is easy, I know it’s not, but I just thought—maybe I’d be good at it. I can read people and places, and see what happened, or what is going to happen. I can find the truth of a situation, like with Sebastian, or your bartender the other night. And I guess I just hoped that maybe someday…” His voice trailed off.

“What?” John asked softly.

“Well, I thought maybe, someday, I could work with my mind instead of my face.” Sherlock blushed and looked away. “Like I said, a foolish dream.”

John shrugged. “So do it.”

Sherlock blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Do it,” John said simply. “You said it yourself, your brother doesn’t know. He can’t keep your money from you forever, but in the meantime…I’m assuming you have the agency protected in the usual way of the filthy rich? Some morally dubious but legally adequate series of corporate identities?”

“Well, yes, but—“

John shook his head. “Your brother can’t touch it?”

Sherlock looked mystified. “No.”

John shrugged again. “So do it. Piss him off. Come work at the agency. Be a model by day, if you want, and a detective by night. Sneak around. Talk to people. Explore crime scenes. Chase and be chased. See if you’ve got what it takes.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You’re mad.”

John grinned widely. “Absolutely. But you can close the agency down in six months just as easily as you can close us down now. Besides, you never know. It could be fun. Come on,” he said, nudging him with his elbow. “You’re ahead of the game. You’ve solved your first case. You’ve already got the mysterious coat and the sexy colleague. You’ve even got a secretary.”

“She’s not a secretary, she’s an administrator.” Sherlock stared at him a minute longer, but then bit his lip and began to chuckle. “It really would piss him off.”

“See, that’s the spirit. What do you say, then?” He extended his hand. “Partners?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then grinning, clasped his hand and shook it once. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but--partners.”

“All right, then. Now to our first order of business,” John said, rubbing his hands together. “Dinner?”

Sherlock grinned. “Starving.” The two turned and started to walk down the street. “I know a great place nearby. Great food and open late.”

“Sounds perfect. But are jackets required?” John asked innocently. “I prefer the plaid jacket for formal occasions." 

“Shut up.”

XXX

Laughing, neither noticed the black-coated man in the shadows on the opposite corner. He followed their progress up the street with narrowed eyes. As they turned the corner, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and angrily typed a message. He took a final look in their direction, snarled, and stalked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With gratitude to those who have read and advised on this chapter along the way: Mazarin221b, EnduringChill, 221bJen, and Kedgeree. Many thanks, dear ones.


	2. New Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John travel to the country to investigate the case of a young man who has been tormented by monsters in the woods where his father died. Along the way, Sherlock finds that their client isn’t the only one haunted by ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to point out that if it wasn't for Daylight Savings Time, this would have been on time.

The door to the agency opened slowly, with hesitation, as if the person outside had yet to decide to come in. Mrs Hudson was seated behind her desk, waiting patiently, a gentle smile on her face. Finally, a young man peeked in through the narrow opening.

“Well, hello there,” Mrs Hudson said softly. “Come on in, won’t you?” The man swallowed and nodded, appeared to summon up his courage, and slipped in through the doorway. The latch clicked behind him and he stood there, blinking and biting his lip. “Dreadful weather out there today,” she tutted. “You must be frozen through, poor lamb. May I get you some tea?”

The man nodded. “That’d be nice, thanks,” he said, in a shy, soft voice.

“Lovely. Have a seat, and we’ll get you set right.” 

He nodded again and smiled before taking a seat in one of the side chairs. Mrs Hudson occupied herself with the kettle and the milk before bringing the young man his drink. “Now, then,” she said, her eyes crinkling warmly. “Drink that up, and tell me your name.”

The young man took a long sip, his eyes lighting appreciatively. “Thank you. That’s really quite good.” He drew in a deep breath. “My name is Henry Knight. I was hoping to meet with Sherlock Holmes, if he’s available? Only I’ve a bit of a mystery at hand, and I heard he might be able to help me.”

A sharp slamming noise came from the hallway, behind the office door. The young man flinched.

“Bloody _hell_ , John!” came a loud, deep voice though the wall. “How many times do I have to tell you? Nothing lower than a five!”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I’ve been going through these emails for an hour! Quit being so blasted stubborn!” another voice yelled back. “This morning, you were threatening to kill someone yourself just for something to do!" 

“God!” the deep voice cried in exasperation. “Your mind is so placid, barely used. What is that like?”

“Did you just call me a moron?”

“Yes! Yes, I did!”

“Well, you’re a drama queen!”

“WHAT? How _dare_ you?”

Henry looked at Mrs Hudson with wide eyes, but she just smiled and patted his hand. “They’re just finishing up a meeting, love. He’ll be right with you.”

XXX

John ushered Henry to the guest chair beside the partners’ desk. “So you say you’re being haunted,” he said calmly, as he took his own seat. “By a ghost?”

“By a dog,” Henry said.

“A dog?” John asked.

“A dog,” Henry repeated. “A big dog, I think.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John shot him a look. “Maybe we could start at the beginning,” John suggested. “You said this all started when you were a child.”

Henry nodded and bit his lip. “I was very young. My mum had died, and it was just my dad and me. We moved out to Dartmoor to be close to my aunt and her family. We’d only been there a few months. We were out for a walk one night. It was dark—my dad liked to look at the stars.” He smiled faintly. “We’d just gotten to the edge of Dewer’s Hollow when we were attacked.”

“Attacked by whom?” Sherlock asked. “Thieves? Ruffians? Are there vicious gangs roving the alleys of Dartmoor?”

“Sherlock, _please_ ,” John said with a sigh. “Please go on, Mr Knight.” 

“It was…it was a dog. A…hound.”

“A hound,” Sherlock said flatly.

“You don’t believe me?” Henry asked, challenge in his eyes.

“It’s not that. Not at all,” John said, as he glared at Sherlock. “Can you tell me more?” Henry bit his lip and looked away, obviously upset. John’s expression softened. “It’s all right, you know, in your own time.”

“But quite quickly,” Sherlock interjected.

John sighed again. “Ignore him,” he said.

“Excuse me? He came to see _me_ ,” Sherlock said indignantly.

“Yes, and he’ll realize his mistake any minute now.”

Henry looked between the two. “Do you two even like each other?”

“No,” said John, matter of factly.

“Sometimes,” said Sherlock with a whine, turning hurt eyes to John. “At least a little.”

“Anyway…” John smiled at Henry encouragingly. “Dewer’s Hollow.”

Henry shook his head and continued. “I don’t remember much, but—“ He trailed off at Sherlock’s loud sigh. “Well, I was only a boy, wasn’t I?”

“Please. Ignore. Him,” John said again, more firmly this time.

“Right. Well, I don’t know what happened. I remember my dad yelling and pushing me away. There was some crashing, and yelling, loud growls and some, what would you call it, snarling? And then I, and then…” He broke off and wiped at his eyes.

John leaned forward and patted his hand. ”It’s OK, Henry,” he said quietly.

Henry nodded and swallowed. “Well, I passed out, I guess. The ambulance was there when I woke up. I was fine, just a broken arm and some scratches, but my dad, well, he was hurt pretty bad. They thought he was getting better at first, but he took a sudden turn the next day. Fell into a coma. Infection, they said. We lost him.”

John was shocked, and Sherlock managed to look a bit chagrined. “My god, Henry, that’s terrible,” John said in a hushed tone. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, and as a lad at that.”

Henry was pale, but maintained his composure. “It’s all right. It’s been a long time.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, held it, and seemed to reconsider, but then the words came anyway. “Who told you it was a dog? Were there actual bites? Do you have scars? Did anyone take pictures?” he asked rapidly. 

“Sherlock, Christ…pictures?” John narrowed his eyes at him, but Henry just shook his head.

“There aren’t any pictures. No one gave me any details, really. I don’t think they wanted me to think about it; they just wanted me to get over it. It wasn’t until a week after the funeral that my cousin told me it had been a dog. She said there were paw prints or something at the scene of the, you know. She’d ever heard someone had seen the dog running away. She got in a lot of trouble with my aunt for saying anything. No one would ever confirm it.” He looked down at his hands. “I’ve been afraid of dogs ever since. Can’t stand to be near them,” he said softly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and drew in breath for another question, but John held up a forestalling hand. “So what brought you here today, Henry?” John asked.

“Well. I’m living at my dad’s old house again. Every night for the past fortnight, there’s been loud howling outside my bedroom window. For the first couple of nights, I just thought the neighbours had got a new dog, but I finally asked, and they hadn’t. But look, I found this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper, on which there was a pencil tracing of a large paw print. “It was in the mud outside my window.” He passed the paper to John, who looked at it briefly before passing it to Sherlock.

Henry looked back down at his hands, which were beginning to shake. “The howling, it’s…I can’t sleep. I’m a writer, and I can’t work. I can barely leave the house. It was a real struggle to come here today, but I convinced myself there probably wouldn’t be any dogs on the train. I was right, thank goodness.” He sighed. “My aunt, she’s a nurse, or was when she was younger. She told me it was probably PTSD, and not to worry, it would pass, but it hasn’t.”

John’s face was tight. “PTSD doesn’t just ‘pass.’ It takes time and effort. That was a thoughtless thing to say.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “Anyway. You want us to…”

“Stop the haunting.” Henry looked up at them hopefully. “You can do that, right? I saw in the paper about the agency, and how Sherlock said there wasn’t a puzzle he couldn’t solve. You can solve this one, right?”

John shook his head slowly. “Well, Henry, I don’t want to make promises...”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock cut in with assurance. “We’ll head out to Dartmoor tomorrow. Is there an inn near your place?”

Henry smiled with quiet delight. “Yeah, but you could stay at the house with me. There’s plenty of room. The chef would be glad for some company to cook for.”

John frowned. “You have a chef?”

“Of _course_ he does, John.” Sherlock smiled to himself. “Thank you, Henry, but it’s probably best that we try to pass as tourists. People will be more likely to talk to us that way. Please don’t tell anyone we’re detectives, all right? We’re just…friends. Visiting. On holiday. In the country.” He shot John a pleased smile. “We’ll text you for the details of the inn. Please leave your contact information with Mrs Hudson on the way out.”

Henry nodded, energised. “That’s…that’s great, Mr Holmes. I’ll see you both tomorrow then.” He stood and turned for the door.

“Just one more thing, Henry…” Sherlock asked casually, examining his nails. “How old are you?”

John frowned, and Henry looked confused. “I’m twenty-nine, Mr Holmes, but why—“

Sherlock jumped to his feet and offered his hand with a false, bright smile. “Travel safely, Henry. Statistically, you’re more likely to encounter dogs in the second and last carriages of any train, so try to avoid those at any cost. Bye bye, now,” he said, and hustled him out of the office.

John closed the door after Henry and turned to Sherlock slowly. “So…explain something to me. You didn’t want the missing persons case you could have solved in five minutes from your desk, for good money, mind you, but you are willing to go all the way to Dartmoor to find a _dog_.”

Sherlock clapped his hands in glee. “The missing woman is angry at her boyfriend for criticising her new hair cut and is hiding at the neighbour’s. She’ll be home with an excruciating hangover in thirty-six hours, no longer. Boring. But Henry. Henry is not boring. He’s twenty-nine, John. Twenty-nine! He has a big house, a chef, and he’s twenty-nine.”

John frowned. “Hold on. Sherlock, are you—is this—“

“Is this—what?”

John swallowed. “Are you interested in him?” 

Sherlock looked confused. “Of course I’m interested in him. He’s a client.”

“No, no, I meant—are you interested in him.”

“What are you—oh. You mean _interested._ ”

“Right. Interested. Are you?”

“I—wait.” Sherlock cocked his head. “What if I am?”

John flushed and looked away. “Doesn’t matter, I guess, just—doesn’t seem very professional, is all.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I would never compromise the integrity of an investigation, John.”

John nodded, still looking away. “Good. That’s—good. Um, of course, I wouldn’t either. Uh, compromise. An investigation.”

Sherlock continued to regard him with suspicion. “Good. I’m glad we cleared that up, then.”

“Right.”

“All right.”

“Good.”

“Fine.” Sherlock shook his head, and then tucked the paw print sketch into his notebook. “I’ve got a bit of research I need to do, and then I’m going to go pack.”

John cleared his throat. “Fine. I’ll have Mrs Hudson make reservations at the inn. We can leave late tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock nodded. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.” His eyes sparkled. “Rest well, Dr Watson. Tomorrow, we’re off to see a man about a dog.”

XXX

John eyed the building appraisingly. “It’s certainly…picturesque.”

Sherlock stepped up behind him. “Mmm. Quaint.” 

“Old fashioned?”

Sherlock nodded. “Appropriate,” he said with a grin. “Exactly the sort of place I hoped for.” He gathered up his bag and started for the door. 

John followed behind. “You seem…”

“What?”

“Excited,” John said, suppressing a smile. “Don’t you usually travel a lot?”

“Yes, but only for work, really,” Sherlock answered over his shoulder. “Photo shoots, videos, ‘appearances.’ They almost always put me up in big hotels, or resorts. Beach cabins, suites.” He looked up at the thatched roof and smiled again. “Never anything like this.”

John stared. “I can’t decide whether to hate you or pity you right now.”

Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “You shouldn’t limit yourself, John. Might I suggest moderate empathy tempered with vague fondness and the merest soupçon of envy?”

John chuckled. “Never mind. I just decided on hate.”

The inn was dark and comfortable inside. Rich woods and brass highlighted the bar, and a large stone fireplace held pride of place in the seating area. Sherlock looked around and beamed. John shook his head fondly and approached the bar. When he rang the bell, a young blond man with a spiky, modern haircut, a neat moustache, and a wide smile popped up from underneath the counter.

“Hi! Welcome to the Cross Keys Inn. I’m Billy, one of the owners.” The man’s gaze passed quickly over John to settle on Sherlock, who was examining the paintings on the wall with interest. His eyes widened. “Blimey! That’s him, isn’t it! Sherlock Holmes, supermodel, in the flesh. Wow.” He shifted his head to get a better look at Sherlock’s entire body, and then gave John a sly, knowing smile. “Jesus, he’s well fit. Well done landing _that_ , Dr Watson.”

John stared back at him. “You know who--?”

“Oh, of course! We know all about you two. Don’t worry, though. We haven’t told anyone. At least not anyone that matters.” The man turned and started flipping through a box of cards and keys. “It’s hard to hard to keep a secret in a place like this, but your secretary gave us strict instructions. Absolute discretion, and…” He slid two ornate brass keys across the counter. “Maximum romance, spare no expense.” The man winked. “The honeymoon suite, as requested. Double bed, tub for two, sweeping views of the moors. The champagne is chilling, and I just took the roses and fresh strawberries up there myself.” He looked around slyly, and then leaned across the counter. “Put a couple of extra pillows up there, too,” he said in a stage whisper. “I’m guessing you’ll know how to use them.” He giggled and gestured toward the stairs. “We’ll bring your bags up, gentlemen. Enjoy your stay.”

John was frozen on the spot, red faced and mouth hanging open. A strong hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he sucked in a deep breath just as Sherlock reached around him to take the keys. “Thank you, Billy, was it?” Sherlock purred in his deepest voice. “I’m sure we’ll be quite comfortable. Come along, John.” He moved to the stairs and started to climb, sliding one hand with pleasure along the highly polished railing. Both men stared after him.

“Christ, that voice. I didn’t know about the voice,” Billy said, with wonder. He looked at John, curious. “Does he snore?”

“Oh, god,” John groaned. He forced his feet to stumble after Sherlock, and wondered fleetingly if he’d survive the weekend long enough to murder Mrs Hudson.

XXX

The door closed behind them. Both men stood and considered the room, Sherlock with apparent delight and John with evident horror. 

John was the first to break the silence. “Sherlock, I’m—I’m just so, so sorry.”

Sherlock looked at him with a hint of confusion. “Why?”

John gestured at the large, lushly-made bed. “For this. For all of--this.” He shook his head violently. “I don’t know what got into Mrs Hudson, but…”

“Nothing got into Mrs Hudson, John,” Sherlock cut in briskly. He stepped around the bed and pulled back the curtains on the large picture window. “I asked her to set this up.”

John stared, completely shocked. “You—but that’s—She didn’t—“

Sherlock huffed. “You really have to work on the sentence completion thing, I simply _cannot_ do all the work all the time. Honestly.”

John swallowed and found his voice. “Sherlock. This entire village thinks we’re a couple.”

“Right!” Sherlock turned and clapped his hands, a broad smile on his face. “It’s classic misdirection. No one thinks we’re detectives. Everyone here thinks we’re a couple on a romantic country getaway. Everyone here thinks we’re here to revel in champagne and roses. Everyone here thinks we’ve got eyes only for the other, and wouldn’t possibly be looking into a crime…”

“Everyone thinks we’re up here having sex,” John muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head, baffled at first, but then a light of recognition came into his eyes. “Oh. That’s what’s bothering you.” He cleared his throat. “I have to admit, I didn’t think about that. Do you really think so?”

John chuckled without humour. “Sherlock, they brought us extra pillows. They made a point of bringing us extra pillows.” He moved to the side table and pulled open the drawer. “And there’s a new tube of lube and condoms in here. I think we can state with absolute assurance that they think we’re having sex.” He gestured to the room at large. “People come to places like this _solely_ to have sex.” 

Sherlock was frowning at the bed. “Hold on, I’m still trying to figure out the extra pillows.” After another couple of seconds, a look of sudden surprise flashed across his face. “Oh!” He clapped a hand over his mouth and stared at the bed a moment longer as a faint blush coloured his cheeks. “Well, that’s certainly…thoughtful of them, I suppose.”

John looked at him with something approaching suspicion. “Sherlock, you…you’ve had getaway weekends before, haven’t you?”

“No, I’m usually working,” Sherlock answered absently, still considering the pillows.

“Right, but…Sherlock, you’ve had boyfriends before, right?” Sherlock whipped his head around to look at him. At the look on his face, John flinched. “Or, girlfriends. Girlfriends are good, too. It’s all fine.” He spread his hands and smiled wanly. “But you’ve…dated, haven’t you?”

Sherlock stared at him, expressionless, for a full minute. “You already know I’m not a virgin, John,” he said finally, in a flat voice. “I’m going to go look around the village now. You can unpack, if you’d like. We can get tea in a bit.” He turned without another sound and left the room.

John sank to the bed and covered his red face with his hands.

XXX

Teatime came and went with no sign of Sherlock, and John was fidgeting anxiously in the lobby. Texts and calls went unanswered; no messages had been left with the innkeepers. John was just beginning to consider consulting with the local constabulary when his mobile finally chimed.

_Need assistance at The Minefield_

John frowned. What the hell was The Minefield?

_It’s a local coffee shop. Ask Billy for directions. Meet you in back_

He stood and shook out the last remnants of his inaction. Maybe he should run upstairs and change—

_Come at once if convenient_

He could at least grab a cup of tea first.

_If inconvenient, come anyway_

What could be so bloody urgent…

_Could be dangerous_

John was out the door like lightning.

XXX

The alley behind The Minefield was narrow, dark, and muddy. Bins were lined up against one faded wood wall, and a skinny cat stopped to sniff hopefully at a discarded tin can. Sherlock stood calmly, regal in his long coat, the shadows highlighting the angularity of his features.

“Where are we?” John whispered, crouching a bit and looking around.

“Coffee shop. It’s closed for the evening. Hey, I was wondering. Do you have a gun?” Sherlock answered at a normal volume.

John looked at him in disbelief. “A—what? Sorry, did you just ask me if I have a gun?”

Sherlock looked down at him. “Ye-es, Yes, I did. Do you?”

John looked away. “Sherlock, why would I have a gun?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re a former military officer in an occasionally dangerous line of work with a strong sense of morality and near pathologic impatience and oh my god, you do! You do have a gun.” Sherlock clapped his hands in delight. “What kind is it? Can I hold it?”

John looked to the sky in exasperation. “Sherlock. We’re in England, OK? If I had a gun, and I’m not saying I do, but if I did, I probably would have it locked away in a nice temperature controlled locker somewhere in Central London. If I did take my gun with me on the road, I wouldn’t take it out in public for my inexperienced and occasionally juvenile partner to fondle for fun. And if I did, through some outlandish turn of fate, have to pull my gun in an alley in Dartmoor, it would still be—“ His voice dropped to a whisper. “Unlicensed, all right, and probably worth my investigator’s licence to reveal. So if I had a gun…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Right, I’ve got it. You don’t have a gun.”

“Right. So why are we here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Surveillance. It’s in your coat, isn’t it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock…”

“Oh, fine. You see that window there?” Sherlock pointed to a dusty window in the wall facing them. “It overlooks the back room of The Minefield. Take a look." 

John snuck up to the window and looked in. “It’s dark, Sherlock. I can’t see much.”

Sherlock materialized silently next to him, and John stifled a yelp. “There’s a flashlight on your phone, right? It’s in the same pocket where your gun isn’t.”

John pulled out his mobile, and the light trickled through the hazy glass. “That’s…recording equipment?” John asked. “”There’s a microphone, and, an amplifier, and good lord, is that an actual tape deck? Do they even make those anymore?” 

“It is,” Sherlock murmured. “They do. And there’s something even better. I already got pictures. Look here.” He clasped John’s arm and walked him back to the edge of the alley. “Here, in the dirt.” He dropped to his knees and brushed some debris aside. In the faint beam of the flashlight, John could make out a vague shape in the mud.

“That’s…a footprint. I mean, a paw print.” John looked at Sherlock with surprise. “The dog is here?”

Sherlock sighed. “Look again, John.”

John crouched and traced the edge of the pattern with his finger. “It’s big. Whatever made this is huge. Oh, wait…there’s another one.” He pointed to a spot several inches ahead. “The dog was—walking?” He stood. “Can you calculate the size of the dog from the prints?”

Sherlock stared at him. “I could, but…you really don’t see it?”

John looked back to the footprints. “See what? I see the footprints of a big dog walking in an alleyway.” He scratched his head, puzzled. “Don’t I?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You see, but you don’t observe. Come on.” He started to stride away.

“Wait, where are we going?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I skipped tea and I’m hungry. I’d murder a man for a sandwich and a large tumbler of scotch right now.”

John laughed once, surprised.

“Oh, not you, of course,” Sherlock said, without looking back. “I’d never threaten an unarmed man.”

XXX

“No.”

“But, John…”

“No, Sherlock, and that is final.” John pointed an emphatic finger his direction. “You are _not_ sleeping in the nude.”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t see why it’s such a big issue.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who requested the honeymoon suite, genius. Misdirection, remember? Well, now you can misdirect your skinny arse into a pair of pants, at the very least.” He sat in the side chair and bent over to unlace his shoes.

Sherlock frowned and pulled his robe closer around him. “It’s not.”

“It’s not what?” 

“Skinny. My arse. It’s not skinny.”

John sat up straight. “You’re kidding.” Sherlock shook his head. “Oh for god’s sake—that’s not the point.”

Sherlock sniffed and looked down at his feet. “It isn’t, though.”

“Sherlock…it’s just a saying. I’m sorry, okay?”

“You haven’t even looked, have you,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Of course I have—wait. No. No, I have not looked at your arse with any intention of passing judgment—are we really having this discussion?”

Sherlock sniffed again, carefully not looking in John’s direction. “It’s fine,” he said softly to the wall.

John sighed deeply and looked to the ceiling for strength. “All right, give us a turn then.”

Sherlock shuffled around in a slow circle and finally came back around to face front again. He was still looking away.

John assumed his most serious expression. “I can’t imagine what I was thinking, Sherlock. Your arse is _anything_ but skinny. I have several adjectives for your arse in mind right now, but not one of them is a synonym for ‘skinny.’ I spoke wrongly and in haste. I promise I will never, never call your arse skinny again, and in fact, I will fight anyone who dares to suggest such a thing. Your arse is perfection, and no one who meets you could ever forget it. Now. Will you forgive me?”

Sherlock smiled happily. “I will. Thank you, John. Do I still have to wear pyjamas?”

“I’m going to murder you, Sherlock.”

“So that’s a yes, I’m guessing.”

“Yes.” John stood and gestured to the bed. “Would you mind if I slept on the side by the door?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Is it important to you?”

“It is.”

“Then, by all means.”

John nodded his thanks and the two men passed at the end of the bed. They each faced away from each other and finished dressing and undressing. John clicked off the light and both slid under the covers.

They laid in the dark for several minutes.

Finally, “Sherlock?” John said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Are you a light sleeper?”

“I…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off. “I don’t think so. Why?”

John hesitated. “No reason, I guess. Just—I, well, talk in my sleep sometimes. I’m concerned I might disturb you.”

“Oh.” A moment passed. “I’m sure it will be fine, John, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Right. Um, good night, then.”

“Good night.” 

Though neither expected it, the quiet of the room and the darkness of the night saw them both quickly asleep.

XXX

Later that night, Sherlock found himself suddenly, abruptly awake.

Unsure of what had roused him, he stayed perfectly still and listened closely. After a minute, he heard a soft whimper from John’s side of the bed. Another few seconds, and he heard a soft whine, followed by a few distressed mumbled words.

Sherlock frowned into the darkness. He didn’t know what to do.

Another minute passed before John sighed and rolled over onto his side. His breathing slowed and became more even, and he didn’t make another sound.

Sherlock stared unseeing at the ceiling for the next hour.

 

XXX

 

“Christ, it’s cold,” John said, burying his hands into his jacket pockets as they walked along. “There are marathons shorter than this driveway.”

Sherlock smirked. “Almost there now.” He motioned with his chin to the building ahead of them. “There’s probably a fireplace in there. Might even be some coffee.”

John stopped for a moment to stare. “That…is a big house.”

Sherlock hummed assent. “I think it probably qualifies as an estate.” 

John snorted. “I think it probably qualifies as its own county.” He scrambled to catch up. “So, Henry is rich then.”

“Oh, yes. Or rather, Henry’s father was rich. I looked up the details yesterday.” John motioned for him to go on. “Henry’s mother was a successful pharmaceutical researcher with several patents to her name. She was killed in a traffic accident when Henry was two years old. There was no suggestion of foul play.”

“That’s sad,” John murmured.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed simply. “Both sets of grandparents died long ago, and Henry’s mother had two sisters, the aunt who lives here, and a black sheep that apparently lives in America. By all accounts, Henry’s father was a caring, devoted father. He was a novelist, and had had some success with some kind of spy novel or something.” He squinted at the plants at the edge of the driveway. “The village was shocked by his death.”

“I should think so,” John said. “Dog attack. Terrible way to go.”

“Yes, wouldn’t it be,” Sherlock said absently. “Game face on, Dr Watson, our host is at the door.”

“Mr Holmes!” Henry called. “Dr Watson! Do hurry in before you freeze!”

The two men hurried along the last section of the drive and scurried into the warm, welcoming house.

“You should have called, I could have had Margaret collect you in the village.” Henry took their coats. “I told her you were coming some time today. She had to leave suddenly to run an errand, or she’d be here now.”

“Oh, no matter,” Sherlock replied airily. “John and I enjoy a brisk morning walk.” John narrowed his eyes at him briefly, and Sherlock shot him a quick smirk. “Who’s Margaret? Your girlfriend?”

“Oh, no. She’s my aunt’s housekeeper,” Henry said, as he closed the door to the coat closet. “She’s been with the family since she was a girl. Helps me out with cleaning and the like from time to time.” He gestured toward the parlour. “Nice girl, Margaret, but a little—well. She doesn’t talk much.” He shrugged. “My aunt and uncle raised her, sent her to school and a further education college. My aunt talks down to her, but I like her well enough.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock nodded. “So there’s no one else here?”

Henry shook his head. “No. And before you ask—no dog last night.” He sighed. “It was wonderful. Took me a while to get to drop off, but I actually got a full night’s sleep.”

“Well, that’s intriguing,” said Sherlock. They walked into the parlour, which had a floor to ceiling window. Sherlock sighed in appreciation. “This is a lovely house, Henry.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Henry’s face fell a bit as he looked around. “Bit much for one man.”

John nodded. “I can imagine. It’s hard enough to live alone in a London flat.” He shook his head. “But at least you have family nearby." 

Henry shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, a bit. My aunt and my cousin Rose. My uncle died of a heart attack a couple of years after my dad passed. I see Rose from time to time, but we don’t spend a lot of time together. I'd like to see her more, but I think I remind them all of the, well. You know.”

“Right,” John said. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Henry brightened. “Auntie invited us all to tea this afternoon, though. I’d love for them to meet you both. Can you come?”

John pursed his lips apologetically. “Well, we—“

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sherlock broke in with a bright smile. “Mind if we look around a bit first?”

XXX

John rummaged through the bushes below Henry’s bedroom window. Sherlock stood a few feet behind him, absorbed in his phone. 

“Ow! Bloody thorns,” John said, shaking his hand as he backed out of the bushes. He turned to face Sherlock and frowned. “Hey, how about a little help here, Detective? Afraid to get your hands dirty?”

Sherlock arched a brow but stayed focused on his reading. “You’re not going to find anything in the bushes,” he said absently.

John brought his thumb close to his face and looked at his wound closely. “Oh? And how do you know that without looking?” He carefully picked a splinter out. “Some investigators actually investigate, you know.”

Sherlock was still absorbed in his phone. “I saw what I needed on the driveway. You see how it wraps around the house?” He motioned without looking at the road behind them. “And you see that gardening shed there?” He motioned to the small building that stood ten yards away, still staring at the screen. “Solar panels. It has power. There’s plenty of evidence, it’s just not in the—oh.” Sherlock looked up just in time to see John suck his thumb into his mouth. “Um. Bushes.” He shivered once and quickly looked back to his phone.

“All right, genius…” 

Sherlock huffed. “Really, John. Did you not see the tire tracks?”

John frowned. “Tire tracks?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Tire tracks. Several cars come and go on a regular basis. A particular Ford Focus comes and goes quite often.”

“You can’t tell me-- 

“I just did. The Ford stops out front, mostly, but a few times has come out this way and stopped at the shed.” 

John sighed. “So, assuming you’re right—“

“Which I am—“

“Which you _might_ be—what’s in the shed?”

Sherlock looked up and grinned. “And finally you are asking the right questions.”

“Shut up. Why don’t you go look?”

Sherlock went back to his phone. “I could do, I suppose.” He didn’t move.

John watched him for a minute. “So..why aren’t you looking in the shed?”

“Hmmm? Oh, because I already know what’s in the shed.”

“Sherlock? I am getting tired of playing games. I want some answers, damn it.” 

“Oh, very well.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Four, King George the Second, Titus Andronicus and all of the above.”

“…The hell?”

“Well, you said you wanted answers.” Sherlock huffed. “Look. There’s nothing in the shed.”

“How can you possibly know that without looking?” 

“I looked.”

“Wait, what? How? When?”

“Full sentences, John.”

John took a deep, steadying breath. “Sherlock. What was in the shed?”

Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially. “The dog,” he whispered. Then he stood. “Which did not howl last night, and which, by the way, does not exist. Shall we?” He strode back around the house. John stared after him, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

XXX

Henry handed his aunt a bouquet of flowers and kissed her powdery cheek. “Hello, Auntie. We saw the car out front, is Margaret here? She was supposed to run by the post office for me today.”

“Hmm, in the kitchen, I think. You can go find her in a minute. But first, let me call Rose, and you can introduce us to your friends.”

“No need, Mum, I’m right here.” A young woman bearing a striking resemblance to Henry entered the room. “Hello, cousin,” she said, quickly ruffling Henry’s hair. “Who’s the fresh meat?”

“Oh, behave, Rose,” Henry’s aunt muttered.

Henry batted her hand away, smiling, and turned to his aunt. “Sherlock and John, this is my aunt, Eleanor Bailey, and my cousin Rose. Auntie, these are my friends, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.” Henry started to blush. “I know them from…we met…well…”

Henry’s aunt ignored him in favour of staring at Sherlock. “My goodness, I know you from somewhere. Are you an actor? Your face is so familiar—” 

“It’s probably not his face you remember,“ John mumbled under his breath. Sherlock aimed a swift kick at his ankle before turning to Eleanor with a beaming smile.

“I’m so flattered that you recognized me,” Sherlock gushed. “Not everyone is so perceptive. I’m a model. I’m in the latest Jaguar campaign.”

Her eyes widened. “My, yes! And that cologne ad, with all the—oh!“ She covered her mouth coyly. “No wonder I recognized you. I’ve seen quite a bit of you, haven’t I, young man.”

Sherlock dramatically pressed his fingers to his mouth. “Oh, stop. It’s so embarrassing.” He offered her his arm with a flourish. “May I escort you to the parlour?”

She giggled and took his arm, taking a second to peek behind him as they turned to the entryway. Rose and Henry followed them, looking amused. John walked in after all of them, shaking his head.

XXX

The parlour was formal in an old fashioned way, well decorated, but showing signs of neglect. John took note of the cobwebs in the corner, and a missed bit of dust on the sideboard. The windows were clean, but only up to a certain height. Still, though, the overall effect was one of comfort and luxury, and John found himself looking forward to tea.

“So tell me, young man,” Aunt Eleanor said to Sherlock with a twinkle. “What brings you to Dartmoor?”

“Holiday!” Sherlock said with enthusiasm as he settled into the sofa next to John. “I don’t get out into the country much. Modelling is a city job, I’m afraid.”

“But of course!” Eleanor said, leaning back and chuckling. “This must be a huge change for you, Mr Holmes.” John cleared his throat. “Oh, and you too, Dr Watson.”

Sherlock nudged John with his elbow. “Absolutely. John has seen more of this sort of thing. Military man, you know, he’s seen the world. But it’s all new to me!“

“Military, you say?” Eleanor looked at John with polite attention. “How did you two meet?’ 

John drew in breath, but before he could answer, Sherlock beat him to it. “We work together.”

“Oh? And what do you do in the modelling world, Dr Watson?”

Sherlock’s grin widened ever further. “John is my private hairdresser. Second career.”

Eleanor reared back in surprise. “Oh! That’s—nice.”

John stared at him, nonplussed. Sherlock winked and continued. “We’re staying at the most darling little inn. We’ve toured the village, and tomorrow I’m thinking of going out on a nice long hike. I’m eager to see some of the—“

A young woman entered, wearing the black trousers, black top, and white apron of a servant. She pushed a cart laden with a porcelain tea service and trays of cakes. Her demeanour was subdued, and she seemed to be carefully avoiding everyone’s gaze.

“—wildlife,” Sherlock finished, suddenly distracted as he took in the young woman’s appearance. Eleanor noticed the direction of his gaze, and frowned.

“Margaret, just leave the cart,” she said. “Rose will see to it.”

Margaret nodded and fled. Silence fell on the room as Rose moved to serve the tea. Eleanor studied her hands, looking distinctly displeased, and Sherlock was watching her closely.

“Um, this is a lovely house,” John finally ventured. “The neighbourhood is quite…lovely.” 

Sherlock started out of his near trance. “Yes, it is. Very elegant. Has your family lived here long?” he asked, an innocent expression on his face.

“Oh, yes.” Eleanor answered, putting on a polite smile. “My grandparents built the house. We’ve been here ever since.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, sipping from his cup. “That kind of tradition is so important, don’t you think.”

Rose snorted.

Eleanor sighed. “Rose…”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Mother.” She stood and reached for another cake from a tray. “It’s boring as bloody hell here.”

Eleanor gasped. “Rose! Language! Not in front of the guests!”

“I’m _fairly_ certain that two cosmopolitan gentlemen from London have heard worse, Mum. Right?” She turned to John and smirked. “I’m moving to London next summer, and I’m never looking back.”

Eleanor slammed her cup down on the table with a bit more force than necessary. “Rose, our guests don’t need to hear about your silly dreams. Run along and check on dinner.”

Rose pressed her lips into a straight line and left without another word.

Henry sighed. “You’ll have to excuse her, Sherlock, John. She got a taste of the big city during uni, and she’s not been the same since.”

John took a sip of his tea and nodded. “Living in London isn’t cheap,” he ventured. “She’ll need quite a nest egg.”

Eleanor sniffed and stood. “I’ve no wish to discuss the foolish dreams of my ridiculous daughter. Gentlemen, it was lovely to meet you, but I fear we must prepare for dinner. Good evening to you.”

She strode from the room, leaving the men blinking behind her. “I guess we’ve been dismissed,” Henry finally said. “I apologise if…”

“No need, Henry,” Sherlock interjected. He rubbed his hands together. “This has been quite an enlightening afternoon.” He turned to John and tilted his head toward the door. “Come along, Dr Watson. We have reservations for dinner at the inn.”

XXX

John leaned over the table, intent, his deep blue eyes glowing in the candlelight. He licked his lips and spoke in a low voice.

“I am going to kill you when we get back to London, you know,” he murmured softly. “Hairdresser, Sherlock? Really?”

Sherlock ran a hand down his own long neck and brushed a long finger along his silk shirt collar. He smiled to himself and slowly looked up at John through his lashes. “I’m sorry, John, I really am,” he whispered. “I panicked.” He bit his lip gently. “But you have to admit, it was funny.”

John chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “Sorry, my arse,” he said, as he ran a finger up the stem of his wine glass. “You could have made me your manager, or a photographer, or even just an old college friend, but no.” He moved his hand from the wine glass and slid it across his cheek. The tip of his little finger caught briefly on the corner of his mouth as it passed. “Hairdresser. You thought that up ahead of time, didn’t you. Bastard.”

Sherlock didn’t look away from John’s face as he reached for the nearly empty bottle of wine and poured the rest of it into John’s glass. He gently placed the bottle back down, and caught the last few drops with his little finger. He slowly licked them off and smiled. “Of course I did. You should have seen your face. It was worth it.”

John smiled back at him, sly and dangerous. He stood and walked around the table, and leaned down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “You should be careful. Remember, I have a gun.” He straightened slowly, winked, licked his lips, and slowly turned to leave.

In the corner of the restaurant, Billy stood with the bartender and one of the waiters, all three openly staring. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Billy whispered. “What do you think they were saying?”

XXX

“John?” Sherlock whispered softly as he slowly, gingerly rolled over.

Neither had fallen asleep as quickly as the night before. John had clung to his side of the large bed for several minutes until he had finally eased into slumber. For his part, Sherlock had lain still and marvelled at the sensation of having someone next to him, in the same room, in the same bed. The rhythmic breathing and gentle warmth had been comforting in a way he hadn’t known for far too long. Eventually, he had drifted off, listening to the gentle snores he would make sure to tease John about in the morning.

Now, though, John’s rest was far from peaceful. His forehead was slick with sweat, and his eyes were squeezed tightly closed as he twitched and clenched his jaw. Obviously, a nightmare. As Sherlock watched, uncertain, John kicked and rolled his head on the pillow.

Sherlock watched a little longer, hoping the storm would pass, until John let out a moan that was heart breaking in its quiet. Sherlock winced and looked around the room. He quickly picked up one of the extra pillows from the floor and positioned himself carefully. Then, with a smooth motion, he hit John with the pillow, pushed it off to the floor, and dropped back to the bed, landing on his side with his eyes closed and face relaxed.

John shocked suddenly awake and immediately clapped his hand to his mouth. He looked around desperately at his surroundings, a sob in his throat, confusion on his face and the fading edges of panic in his eyes. As he searched the room, his eyes landed on Sherlock, now motionless in feigned sleep. John took one deep breath, and then another, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s peaceful face. Finally, with one more deep hitch of his breathing, he settled back down into the covers and rolled to face him. Hesitantly, he reached one hand over to lightly touch Sherlock’s wrist where it had flopped into the space between them. With one more sigh, he closed his eyes, and slowly drifted away.

As John’s breathing deepened, Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. He lay that way for an hour, watching John’s face and unwilling to move, until John finally shifted away in his sleep.

XXX

Henry’s face brightened as Sherlock approached the bench outside The Minefield. It was a bright, sunny day, clear and cold.

“No dog last night either, Mr Holmes,” Henry said ruefully, as he handed Sherlock a steaming cup of coffee. “He seems to have moved along. I fear I brought you all the way out here on a wild goose chase.” 

“Not at all, Henry,” Sherlock said, sitting next to him and wrapping his hands around the cup. “This case has had many features of interest. There are only a few more loose ends to tie up now.” 

“Really?” Henry asked, surprised. “You think there’s still a case? You haven’t even seen the dog yet.”

“Ah, but technically speaking, neither have you,” Sherlock said, swallowing a smile.

“No, but I did see its tracks.”

“The one outside your window?” Henry nodded, and Sherlock shifted to face him. “Interesting, that. There was no sign of dog prints outside your window when John and I looked yesterday. They had been washed away.”

“Washed away?” Henry asked, puzzled. “But it hasn’t rained in several days. It’s been damp, but there’s been no actual rain.”

“Exactly. So either the dog took a hose and removed the evidence, or—“

“Or someone did it for him." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Or there isn’t a dog.”

“But if there isn’t a dog, that means…”

Sherlock’s face softened slightly. “That someone is trying to trick you. Maybe even trying to scare you away. Yes.”

Henry was shocked. “But who would do that? I’m a nobody!”

“You’re a nobody in a very big house, Henry,” Sherlock said gently.

“Henry? You OK? You need a refill?” Margaret peeked from the doorway of the coffee shop. Her eyes widened. “Oh. I didn’t see you there, Mr Holmes. I’ll just—go back to work, then.” 

Sherlock looked after her. “I didn’t realize Margaret worked here.”

“Yeah, part time. Just a few hours here and there. Rose knows the owner from school, and she got her the job.”

“But…” Sherlock frowned. “She’s your aunt’s housekeeper, isn’t she? Why would she need another job?” 

Henry shrugged. “Just wants a bit of extra money, I guess. I don’t think Auntie pays her very well. I don’t really know. I mean, I’ve known her forever, but Margaret keeps to herself.”

Sherlock hummed to himself. “I bet she does,” he muttered.

XXX

“Henry!” Eleanor peeked through the door. “Dear boy, were we expecting you? You’re just in time for lunch. And oh, you’ve brought your friends along, too. Lovely.” She opened the door wide. “Come in, please, all of you.” She ushered them in and closed the door behind them. “I was hoping to talk to you.” She clasped her hands in front of her as she composed her thoughts. “I want to apologize for yesterday. I’m very sorry I behaved the way I did. Well, that we all behaved the way we did.” She smiled, and slipped a piece of hair behind her ear. “I do hope you can forgive us.” 

Sherlock grinned. “Of course,” he said. “Very gracious of you. And we apologize for upsetting you.”

“You’re too kind,” Eleanor replied with some relief. “Please, come in. I’ll call for tea.” She ushered them to the parlour.

“Thank you,” Sherlock stood aside to let her enter first. “Tell me, are Rose and Margaret home?”

“I think so. They’ll in for lunch in any event.” They settled into their seats, Eleanor perched birdlike on the edge of her chair. “So, tell me, gentlemen. How are you liking Dartmoor?”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Sherlock said. “It’s just what I like in a village, old and picturesque and steeped in murderous secrets.” He steepled his hands under his chin. “Perhaps it’s time we tell you why we’re really here. John?”

John started. “Uh, OK, I guess,” he said, with an inquisitive glance at Sherlock, who gestured for him to continue. “Mrs Bailey, Sherlock and I are actually private investigators. Henry brought us in to look into something for him.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Auntie, you know that dog that was howling outside my window?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Henry. You brought these men all the way from London for that?” She shook her head. “You really don’t have any common sense. And you,” she said turning on John. “Taking advantage of an obviously unbalanced young man. Playing on his fears. You should be ashamed.”

“Wait, what?” Henry blinked in confusion. “I’m not unbalanced. There really was a—“

“Giant hound?” She scoffed. “Please. You’ve been obsessed with dogs since your father died, God rest his soul, and now you’re imagining—“

“Enough.” Sherlock held up a hand to silence her. With the other hand, he thumbed a button on his phone. He held it up, and the loud sound of a large dog barking and snarling filled the air. Henry stiffened, and John sent him a sympathetic smile.

After a minute, Sherlock paused the recording. “You were saying?” he said, with a lifted brow and a curious expression.

Eleanor put her hand over his mouth. “My goodness. You mean there really was a dog?”

“I’ll explain everything a minute, but we have a few questions first. Tell me, Mrs Bailey--” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “How did Henry’s father really die?”

John and Henry both gasped. Eleanor looked at him in shock, but only for a moment before she rallied herself and rose dramatically to her feet. “Out,” she said, steel in her voice.

Sherlock just smiled and settled down into the sofa, a cold glint in his eye. “Good answer,” he said calmly. “We’ll leave soon enough, but I have important business with Rose and Margaret first.”

A flash of fear crossed Eleanor’s face, and she sank back into her chair. “What could you possibly want with Margaret?”

Just then, the front door creaked open and closed. “Mum? Henry? I saw the car…” Rose peeked around the corner into the parlour. “Oh. What’s going on?”

“Cousin Rose!” Sherlock said, jumping to his feet and giving a little bow. “We’re just telling ghost stories. Come in! Sit down.” He gestured to the sofa. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

Rose gave him a little nervous smile and sat on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. Eleanor stirred in her chair. “Rose? Don’t say anything. We don’t have to answer to these men.”

John laughed. “That’s true, you don’t. You could always tell your stories to the police yourself. They’d probably be quite eager to hear—and repeat—our report.”

Eleanor paled and sat back, silent. Sherlock sent John a small, approving nod.

Sherlock turned to Rose with a gentle, understanding smile. “Now, Rose, I know it’s been a long time, but I think you might be able to remember…how did you know Henry’s dad was killed by a dog?”

Eleanor let slip an unladylike curse. “This is a waste of time! She was a little girl and—“

“Mum told me,” Rose cut in calmly. “I remember it like it was yesterday. She pulled me into the study and said, ‘Rose, you need to understand that Uncle was killed by a dog. A big dog.’ She said it several times. She even described what the dog might have looked like. I remember.”

“Oh, please,” Eleanor said, rolling her eyes. “You were what, five?”

“Seven,” Rose answered, her eyes flashing. “It happened, Mum. It was just after lunch. You were wearing a black jumper. There were roses in the vase on the desk. You told me it was a dog, and you told me to tell Henry.” 

Eleanor jumped to her feet again. “You know what? _I’m_ calling the police,” she said haughtily. “You won’t get away with this. This is the worst kind of—“

“I heard it too, Auntie,” a soft voice said from the hallway. Margaret shuffled around the corner. Her hands were clasped in front of her. “I was playing with Rose that day. When you summoned her, I—I followed her and hid in the hallway. I heard what you said.” Tears threatened at her eyes, and she sniffed.

“Oh, Margaret, shut up,” Eleanor snapped.

Sherlock whirled and faced the cringing young woman. “Oh, no, Margaret, please don’t.” He directed her to the space on the sofa next to Rose. “Sit, please. Stay a while.” Margaret looked fearfully at Eleanor, but then shuffled to the sofa and sat down. She bit her lip and looked down at her feet. A whine escaped her. Sherlock reached into his pocket and handed her his handkerchief with a gentle nudge. She blinked and took it, blowing her nose and then murmuring her thanks.

Sherlock stepped to the doorway and turned to face the assembled. “This is a family full of secrets,” he announced dramatically. John rolled his eyes, but Eleanor swallowed hard. “Twenty-five years ago, Henry’s father was killed on a dark road not too far from here. It was a tragedy, yes, but it was no accident and it certainly wasn’t a dog attack. And Mrs Bailey, you know it.”

Eleanor started crying softly, and buried her face in her hands. Henry frowned. “Wait, Sherlock. Are you saying that—" 

Eleanor broke into sobs. “It was Douglas, Henry. Your uncle, my husband. He—“ Her breathing hitched. “He was always jealous of your parents and their money.” She turned to Sherlock. “He was a solicitor. He tried to get Henry’s mother to let him manage her patents and contracts, but she told him she didn’t want to mix business and family. After she died--“ she stopped, unable to go on.

“Let me try,” Sherlock said with a look of disgust. “After she was gone, your husband figured that if Henry’s dad died too, then you, Eleanor, would become Henry’s guardian and get control of the estate. Correct? He thought if Henry was _orphaned_ , he’d be that much closer to all that money.”

Eleanor flinched, but then slowly nodded, tears still streaming down her face. “Especially after they moved here,” she said. “He said—he said it was only fair that we get that house. I told him no.” She raised her eyes to Sherlock beseechingly. “I _did_. I told him to just put it out of his mind, Henry had suffered enough. I thought he had let it go. But then Henry’s dad was-- and Douglas started acting all strange. Paranoid. He didn’t say anything, but—“ She started to sob again. “I found the mask he had worn. He had it left over from uni, this big furry thing. I confronted him, but—it was too late. I’m so sorry.“

Sherlock sniffed. “Yes, very touching. The investigation went nowhere, because the police here are a special breed of incompetent. You covered for him, and went on covering for him. You kept quiet in public, but you lied to your daughter, to your nephew, and to Margaret.” 

Eleanor sniffed and nodded. “Rose saw the mask one day. I had hidden it in the garage, but she found it and started asking questions. It was all I could think of.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Really? _That_ was all you could think of?" 

Tears flooded Henry’s eyes. “But, but—you weren’t my godparents. My parents named someone else.” He turned to Sherlock. “I had to live with dad’s college roommate in London until I was old enough for boarding school. There were no kids, no family of any kind. It was so lonely.” He turned back to Eleanor and raised his hands in supplication. “How could he?” 

Eleanor was regaining her self control. “I think he was just blinded by jealousy, Henry. I am so sorry.”

Rose was staring at her, stricken. “Christ, Mum, how could you _do_ that?” She looked to Henry, beseechingly. “Henry, I’m so sorry. I never meant to lie to you.“

“We believed it,” Henry said quietly. 

Rose looked at him sadly. “We were only kids. Of course we did.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “But Margaret--didn’t.” He walked over to stand before her. “You knew the truth.”

Margaret stayed silent, but shook her head.

“Oh, come now.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be shy.”

Rose wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “She’s not shy, Mr Holmes. Margaret—has a difficult time with things. Words and--you know.”

Sherlock tilted his head appraisingly. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe. I’ve learned a fair amount about dear Margaret in the past few days, and I think she’s good at many _things_.” Margaret sucked in a quick breath and held it. 

Eleanor looked up from her hands, wide-eyed. Sherlock pulled his notebook from his pocket.

“For example,” he continued. “Margaret is quite good at making coffee drinks. She was very efficient during her tenure at The Minefield. But yes, that is sadly past tense, because Margaret got fired yesterday. Turns out that Margaret was also pretty good at skimming from the till. It took them a long time to figure out who it was.”

Rose gasped. “Oh, Margaret. And I got you that job, too.” 

“Yes, well, you might want to apologise to your friend.” Sherlock made a show of consulting his notebook again. “Another skill that Margaret has is audio mixing. You wouldn’t think it, would you? But she does.” He turned the page. “Her instructors gave her high marks for skill and creativity. She was especially good at special effects. You know, slamming doors. Footsteps. Howling wind. Animal sounds.” He looked around the room with a lifted eyebrow. “By the way, Margaret, the management of The Minefield would like for you to come collect your equipment.”

Henry pointed to Margaret, sputtering. “You. It was you. You made the dog sounds. That recording.” He turned to Sherlock. “But wait, Sherlock. What about the paw prints?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. “Yes, the tracks. You showed us that tracing in London, and I thought something was a bit off about it.” He pulled the sheet of paper from his notebook. “It’s a skilful print, and the perfect size foot for an impressive hound, but there’s one major problem.” He held up the paper. “It’s a cat’s foot. Or rather, it’s based on a cat’s foot.”

John shook his head. “Wait. How do you—“ 

“Retractable claws, John. Cats have them, even big cats, but dogs don’t. If you see a paw print, and there are no visible claws…”

“Ah.” John’s face lit up with understanding. “It’s a cat. Of course.”

“Right. She had an amplifier in that shed behind the house, but when Henry told her we were coming, she made it disappear. It was clear from the tire tracks to and from the shed, and the scuffs in the dirt at the doorway. They had been made that morning. Cleaned up the fake prints, too. How am I doing so far, Margaret?” He turned back to face her.

Margaret was staring up at him with hatred, her fists clenched and her face red. “You’ve made all of this up,” she said in a flat voice. “Who are you to come in here and blame me for anything? You’re a bloody model, that’s all. A nice face and a pretty arse.” 

“Margaret!” Eleanor gasped.

“Oh, hush, _Mrs Bailey_ ,” Margaret said, drawing out the name with derision. “I’m so tired of your holier-than-thou act. You were an accessory after the fact to _murder_. So save it.”

Sherlock suppressed a grin as he turned to Henry. “I don’t know, Henry, Rose, I think she’s pretty good with words.”

Margaret sniffed and lifted her chin proudly. “I’m a damn sight smarter than this lot thinks I am, and I’m smart enough to know that you don’t have a case. You’ve got a bunch of circumstantial evidence, and no motive.” 

“Ah. The motive. That’s where this gets _really_ interesting.” Sherlock crossed his arms and regarded Margaret with curiosity. “You’re obviously clever, and apparently not a bad actress either, judging from...“ He waved a negligent hand at the assembled before placing a thoughtful finger across his pursed lips. "But you know, you’re rather pretty, too. Very distinctive in appearance.”

Rose looked from Sherlock to Margaret in surprise. “Margaret is?” 

Sherlock turned and winked at Rose. “Now, don’t be jealous, cousin. You’re pretty, too. In fact,” he said, slowly turning back to face Margaret, “You share many attractive characteristics.”

From her armchair, Eleanor made a small whimper of distress. 

“For example,” Sherlock continued, “you both have the same delicate profile. Your ears, in particular, are quite lovely, perfectly shaped down to the attached ear lobes. And your eyes are _quite_ memorable. A peculiar shade of blue, quite unusual. I’ve only seen that particular shade in one other person, and that’s Henry here.”

Behind him, John made a little gasp of recognition.

“You work very hard with your hands, Margaret, don’t you? Look at them.” Sherlock leaned over and lifted one from her lap. “Curved little fingers bilaterally, also shared by Henry.”

Margaret jerked her hand from his loose grasp and crossed her hands in her lap, right over left. “And of course, you have a natural elegance to you. Why, look at you now. Right hand crossed over left, the very picture of grace. Just like your aunt and cousin.”

Eleanor let out a wail. Rose gasped and collapsed back in a near swoon.

“All recessive traits,” John murmured. “Eye colour, ear lobes, finger shape, hand placement.” He stood up and came to stand behind Sherlock, putting one hand on his shoulder. “She’s a relative.” He squeezed softly. “A cousin, probably. The sister in America. Bloody brilliant,” he murmured.

Sherlock smiled faintly and nodded, his eyes still on Margaret. “Mrs Bailey was named Margaret’s permanent guardian when she was two. The mother’s name isn’t listed, but I’m willing to bet very good money that you’re right. But family relations alone don’t explain why Margaret targeted Henry.” He brightened. “You know what does?” He reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of folded papers.

On the sofa, Margaret tensed.

“The day before we left London, I spent some time at the probate office. They’re normally not very forthcoming, but well. Turns out one of the clerks is a fan of mine.” He looked up at Margaret and winked. “It is a _very_ pretty arse.”

“And not at all skinny,” John interjected.

Margaret snarled.

“It’s not a very exciting place, probate," Sherlock smirked, "but what I uncovered there was rather compelling.” He unfolded the papers and began to read. “The terms of Henry’s dad’s will were rather simple; best friend as guardian, the house, a trust for its care. If anything had happened to Henry, the estate would have passed to charity. Quite noble.” He turned the page. “However, Henry’s mother’s will, which was secret, was far more complicated. Her liquid assets passed to her husband, nothing special there. But she was a gifted researcher with several patents to her name, and involvement in several other projects under development. The income from all of that was fed directly into aggressively invested trusts.” He looked up at Margaret, and then over to Henry. “Henry, did you know about any of this?”

Henry looked stunned. “I—no. No, I didn’t.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Then you probably don’t know that you get control of the trusts when you turn thirty. That’s just next month, isn’t it?” Henry nodded weakly.

Sherlock turned to the next page. “Well, the terms of the trusts are very specific. If you pass away before your birthday, or if you can’t be located after three years, the inheritance passes to your mother’s sisters and their offspring.” Sherlock slowly raised his gaze and locked eyes with Margaret, who was now baring her teeth. “Interestingly enough, the address on file with the trustees is a post office box in this very village, and there’s no other information on file. Someone filed a change of address with the attorneys a couple of years ago. At first I thought it was Eleanor, and then I briefly entertained the notion it could be our ambitious Miss Rose—but it wasn’t. It isn’t. It’s Margaret.”

Margaret launched herself from the sofa, her hands curved into claws. John swiftly stepped between her and Sherlock, catching her around the waist and holding her back. “You think you’re so smart, but you can’t prove any of this!” she gritted out, struggling and still trying to reach Sherlock over John’s shoulder. “I’ll cover my tracks. There’s no proof I’m part of this bloody family. I’ll never consent to a DNA test!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “John?" 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Pull out some of her hair. A handful should do.”

Margaret gasped and pushed John away into the sofa. “Don’t you dare. I’ll file charges for assault, I swear to god.”

John chuckled. “As much as I would enjoy giving that statement, there’s no need. You’re not much of a housekeeper, Margaret.” He held up the handkerchief Sherlock had given her earlier. “You left this on the couch. Plenty of DNA right here.”

Sherlock snorted. “Disgusting, but effective.” 

John grinned. “That should be our motto.”

Rose cleared her throat. “Mum? Did you know about this? About Margaret’s plan?”

Eleanor blinked silently from her armchair, where she was otherwise frozen with shock.

“I don’t think she did, Rose, I really don’t,” said Sherlock gently. “Your mum has made some serious mistakes, but she wasn’t part of this.”

Henry still looked shaken to his core. “Sherlock, are these—how much money are we even talking about?” 

“I thought you might ask.” Sherlock consulted his notebook. “I made some rough estimates, based on the markets in years past and the current state of the pharmaceutical market. It looks like it should be somewhere around thirty million pounds.” He shrugged. “More or less.”

Henry went white. “Cor,” he whispered, staring at Sherlock for several moments before his gaze shifted to Rose. “Well, there’s your flat in London, Rosie,” he managed to get out. Rose blinked once, twice, and then smiled a soft, hopeful smile.

Eleanor finally stirred. She rose from her chair slowly and walked unsteadily across the room to Henry. She placed a shaking hand on his cheek and gave him a watery smile. “Dear boy,” she whispered. Then she turned to Margaret. “After all we did for you--you did this. I want you out tomorrow,” she said, slowly finding her voice. “I’ll give you ten thousand pounds. Go find your mother in America.”

Margaret turned ashen. “But…Auntie. No one was hurt. Not really,” she whispered. 

Eleanor shook her head. “No. I made a terrible mistake years ago in the moment, trying to fix someone else’s terrible mistake. You _planned_ this. You tortured your own cousin, tried to drive him to madness.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head again. “No. From this day on, the people in this house treat each other with honesty and respect. I’ll never trust you. I wish you well, but—“ She raised her hand as if in blessing. “Get the _hell_ out.”

Sherlock turned to John. “And I think that’s our cue to leave,” he said quietly. “Shall we?”

“Wait, you two,” Henry said, rising from his chair. “I’ll see you out.” He took them each by the elbow and walked with them to the front door. “I can’t—well. Thanks doesn’t even come close to touching it,” he said shyly. “Obviously, you know what you’ve done. I’m so grateful.”

Sherlock offered his hand. “Don’t let the money change you, Henry,” he said with a smile. “You’re a good man.” They shook hands and Sherlock stepped outside.

Henry turned to John. “He’s remarkable, isn’t he?”

John snorted. “Sure. Just ask him.”

Henry grinned and offered his hand. “Take care of him, Dr Watson,” he said quietly as they shook hands. “And take care of yourself.”

“You too, Henry,” John said, and he walked out into the afternoon sun.

Sherlock was waiting for him outside, pulling on his leather gloves. He inclined his head in the direction of the main road.

“Taxi?” he said. “I figure we can spend one more night at the inn and head back tomorrow, if that sounds all right.”

John nodded. “Fine.” He impulsively reached out a hand to touch Sherlock’s arm. “Listen, I know I say it all the time, but—that really was amazing.”

Sherlock gave him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, John.” They started to walk down the drive. After a couple of minutes, he cleared his throat. “You know, it’s strange. All of this—“ He motioned behind them toward the house. “—is easier than I expected.”

“Sure, for you, super genius,” John said, smirking.

Sherlock stopped and turned to face him. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I mean, it’s _true_ , maybe—“

John sighed.

“—but I think it’s easier because, well. Because of _you_.”

“Me?” John said in surprise.

“Yes.” Sherlock turned on his heel and they continued to walk toward the road, Sherlock carefully focussed straight ahead. A faint blush tinted his cheeks. “My ideas come more quickly when I’m with you. I see patterns and connections better, the words come faster—“ He shrugged. “It’s like you’re a—conductor of light. Or something.”

“That’s—“ John looked touched. “That’s incredibly nice of you to say, Sherlock. Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded once, briefly. They walked in silence for another minute.

“Of course,” Sherlock finally said, hiding a grin. “Understand, on your own, you’re not the most luminous of men.”

John smiled broadly. “You really should quit when you’re ahead, you know.”

“But it’s true!” Sherlock protested. “Remember when we saw the prints behind the coffee shop?”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” John rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t realise they were cat feet. I’m not a professional tracker. Sue me." 

Sherlock smirked. “I can tell you’re not a professional dancer, either.” 

“Hmm?”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and showed him a photo. “The tracks were all of left feet, John.”

John made an annoyed sound. “Oh, for god’s sake…” 

“So either it was a giant cat was dressed in a dog costume hopping on one foot, or…”

John swallowed a smile as he elbowed him once in the ribs. “Oh, shut up.”

XXX

John shot up straight in bed, wide eyed and gasping. Unconscious tears rolled down his face as he pulled the duvet up to his chest with one tight fist. He looked around wildly for a moment, shaking and panting, until he seemed to recognise his surroundings. He closed his eyes and took a single, long, deep breath in through his nose.

Long fingers gently rested on his shoulder. “Nightmare?” Sherlock’s low voice rumbled behind him.

John just nodded. “Sorry to wake you,” he whispered, letting go of the covers. “I’ll just go for a walk or something. Go back to sleep.” He started to turn and get out of bed.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “You don’t have to go anywhere.” Sherlock briefly squeezed John’s shoulder. “Do you—do you want to talk about it?”

“Hell, no,” John said with resignation, rubbing his eyes.

“No, no, I imagine not. Sorry.” Sherlock paused. “Was it the war?”

There was a long silence, and then John nodded once. Another long minute passed as his breathing returned to normal.

“John…” Sherlock said softly, with some hesitation. “Do you trust me?”

John huffed once, a humourless chuckle. “Not really, no.”

“I mean, with your life.”

“Oh.” John considered. “In that case, absolutely.”

“Then come here.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened and pulled John down slowly, until he was lying on his back. A long arm slid under his neck, and with exquisite care pulled him close until he could rest his head on Sherlock’s smooth, angular shoulder. John held himself taut for a brief moment, but then he sighed with surrender and allowed himself to relax and nuzzle into the soft cotton of the vest under his cheek.

Sherlock slowly reached his other arm around him, and with a gentle squeeze, pulled him a bit closer. Carefully, with almost no pressure at all, he pressed his lips to John’s hair. “You’re safe now,” he whispered. “Sleep well.”

And they did.

XXX

Sherlock stood in front of the inn, duffle in hand, his eyes closed and his face tilted up toward the morning sun. John walked up next to him, staring down at the small sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Sherlock…someone paid our bill.” John flipped through the papers, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”

Sherlock frowned, still turned into the light. “Henry?”

“No, no, I called him. He said he assumed we would bill him for expenses.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s brow creased briefly as he thought. “Someone else in the family, then.” 

John shook his head. “Billy said it was a man. “

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked down at him. “Maybe it was a fan.”

John regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Does that happen often?”

“It never has.” Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. “Drinks, yes. Hotel bills, never.”

John shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s a mystery for now, then.” He folded the papers and slid them into his jacket pocket. “One for the win column, Mr Holmes,” he said with a grin. “Ready to get back to the big city?” 

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose. I rather enjoyed this, though, getting London out of my lungs.” He looked over at John, a twinkle in his eye. “You know, though, it’s simply impossible to find a good hairdresser in a village this size.” 

John grinned. “Sherlock, one of these days, I’m going to drug you and shave you bald, I swear to God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With gratitude to my beta babes, 221bJen and EnduringChill. It must be noted, though, that due to time pressure, they were not able to review this chapter in its entirety. If you look closely, you might see the line where their input ended. My apologies for that. 
> 
> Also, thanks to Kedgeree for her support and for virtually yelling at me in all caps. Kedgeree has also designed fantastic art for this fic (OMG OMG OMG), which I will link to this once I remember how to do it.
> 
> I must acknowledge the brilliant transcript of the BBC Sherlock "Hounds of Baskerville" by Ariane DeVere, which is available on LJ. This was a difficult episode to mine for some reason, and that transcript was invaluable to me.


	3. Pressure Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prestigious client brings Sherlock and John to the attention of a ruthless publisher and blackmailer. John finds the unexpected reappearance of a name from Sherlock's past almost as distracting—and distressing.

Sherlock rhythmically tapped his fingers on the desk as he looked out of the ground floor window into the small back garden. It was a rare sunny day in London, and the sun’s warmth managed to filter through the glass and wrap around his hands like gloves. He thought yet again about how much easier it would be to get away with murder in spring or summer, when the hemisphere’s own warmth would conspire to speed a corpse’s decomposition. Not for the first time, he wished he had unrestricted access to a morgue and an undeveloped plot of land.

The door to the office opened behind him, and he watched Mrs Hudson enter the room in the window’s reflection. The sun prevented him from seeing her expression, but he could predict it from the rattle of the tea tray she carried: smiling, warm, caring, and just slightly self-satisfied. He turned to confirm that he was right, and found he couldn’t help but smile back.

She handed him a cup of tea, and he nodded his thanks as she perched on the guest chair. “Perfect, as always,” he said with a wink. His gaze wandered to the other side of the partners’ desk. “Where’s John?”

She slid a plate of freshly baked chocolate biscuits across the desk. “He mentioned something about his shooting club and said he’d be back in a couple of hours. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s more fun when he’s here.”

Mrs Hudson smiled. “You like him,” she said softly.

Sherlock started. “What? No—well, of course I like him,” he sniffed. “He’s my partner.”

She shook her head gently. “No, Sherlock. You _like_ him.”

He stared at her for a minute, and then slumped with defeat. “Maybe.” He frowned to himself. “But he’s very easy to like, then, isn’t he.”

“You tell me.” She took a long sip of her tea. “Well, actually, you should tell him.”

Sherlock hummed, a defeated sound. “There’s no point. He’s never going to be interested in someone like me.”

Mrs Hudson looked at him, confused. “Of course he—whatever do you mean?”

He swept his hand in front of him to indicate his body. “Well, this is all I have to offer.”

She settled back into her chair. “I'm afraid I don't see your point. You’re lovely, Sherlock. You know that.”

Sherlock huffed with impatience. “Right. I hear that all the time. Everyone thinks I’m _pretty_ , except for the modelling ‘professionals’ who feel obligated to point out my flaws. But I’m not--” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “John is a doctor. He’s a war hero. He’s a _good man_. He deserves—better.”

Mrs Hudson hummed and set her cup down on the edge of the desk. She crossed her hands in her lap and considered him for a minute. Then she nodded to herself. “Probably.”

“See?” Sherlock threw up his hands. “Thank you for your honesty." He turned his gaze back to the window and the suddenly hateful sunshine. 

“It’s not about what he deserves, Sherlock. It’s about what he wants.” Mrs Hudson looked down at her hands. “I knew him before, you know. Before he went to war. When he was in medical school.” Sherlock didn’t look at her, but tilted his head to indicate he was listening. “He was smart and funny, like he is now, but he was different. Much more serious. Studious. Men still liked him, and women too for that matter, but he wasn’t nearly as much of a flirt. He had more of a quiet charm about him.” 

Sherlock hummed. “So what happened?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson goggled at him. “You _know_ what happened. He got shot. It took some time for me to put together the whole story, but—“ She bit her lip and looked down again. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but it was bad. The wound got infected, and then he caught some kind of fever. He almost died, twice.”

Sherlock paled. He looked down at his fingers where they traced along the edge of his desk blotter. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. 

“No, well, he wouldn’t want you to, would he,” Mrs Hudson said kindly. “And that’s my point. He came back changed. Much louder, much more flamboyant. Almost obnoxious. Always the life of the party. No sad stories.”

Sherlock nodded. “I guess near-death experiences change a man.”

“That’s just it, though,” Mrs Hudson said, urgency creeping into her tone. “He’s the same man underneath it all. I see it in him sometimes, when he’s quiet and it’s only the two of us. He just _plays_ the clown. The bright jackets, the teasing, the flirting with anything with a pulse—“ She rolled her eyes. “He takes chances, too, that he would never have taken before. He’s told me stories of chases and bar fights that would turn even your hair white.” 

Sherlock turned to face her. “So why do you think he does it?”

She shrugged. “To keep people from getting too close,” she said simply. “I think he saw things over there that hurt him, and he came back determined not to get hurt again. But, Sherlock--” she said, reaching over to put her hand over his. “Dear, he can’t hide everything. He’s lonely.”

Sherlock stared at her. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” 

She grinned and stood. “Yes. You’re my boys, after all. I have to keep an eye on you.”

He looked surprised. “Me? I’m your boy?“

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, giving him a bright smile. “Of course you are, silly.” She leaned over and cupped his chin. “And I just want the two of you to be happy.”

He smiled up at her ruefully. “I don’t know, Mrs Hudson. I’m not very good at…” He waved his hand in the direction of John’s chair. “And I’m still not convinced he’d ever be interested.”

She winked. “Well, you never know until you try, dear.” She turned to leave.

“But Mrs Hudson…” Sherlock said, almost pleading. She stopped and turned around. “This, the agency, is the best part of my life. He’s—John is my only friend. What if you’re wrong? What if I mess things up?”

“What if you don’t?” she asked softly. “Look, I expected him to kill me when you two got back from Dartmoor. I figured he’d be _livid_ about the bed and all. Instead, he brought me flowers, and kissed me on the cheek.” She turned back to the door. “Just think about it, is all I’m saying,” she said, and stepped out.

XXX

Text (Sherlock to John): _Hurry back, we have a client. -SH_

_On my way. Anything exciting? JW_

_Possibly. VIP. We’re waiting for you. –SH_

_Hell, I’m dressed for the range. Time to change? JW_

_Not really. I’ll have Mrs H pull something together for you. –SH_

_Tell her the plaid jacket is in the hall closet. JW_

_I will NOT. –SH_

_I was kidding. JW_

_Not funny. –SH_

_It was a little funny. JW_

_This isn’t over. -SH_

XXX

“Lady Elisabeth Smallwood, may I present my business partner, John Watson.”

Lady Smallwood was an elegant woman, beautifully coiffed and dressed in a suit that John privately thought probably cost a fortune. She was obviously agitated, though, and showed signs of fatigue. Her nails were bitten to the quick. John shook her hand gently, murmuring polite words of greeting.

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, gentlemen,” Lady Smallwood said. Her voice was well modulated, but strained. “This is a matter of some urgency, and to begin, I must insist on your complete discretion.” 

“Of course, Lady Smallwood,” Sherlock said, with a gracious incline of his head. “We will keep everything you say in the strictest of confidence.”

“Very well,” Lady Smallwood said. “First, are you familiar with Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

Sherlock’s polite smile faded and was replaced by a frightening lack of expression. John looked between the two of them, confused. “The newspaper man, isn’t it? Scandal sheets, and what not?”

“The same.” Lady Smallwood stood and began to pace. “I’ve known Mr Magnussen for some time. He owns several newspapers, a couple of magazines, and has part ownership in several television stations. He is a successful businessman, and one who has earned respect, even if his newspapers haven’t.” She stopped and arched a brow. “That is the public’s perception. In truth, he is a disgusting man. He has undue influence over many people in government. He foments chaos, undermines authority, and revels in the downfall of anyone of wealth or power. We in government have been keeping an eye on him for some time, and often despair at his actions. He is, in short, despicable.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who was looking down at his feet, still stone-faced “All right. Sounds like a scary enough bloke. But how can we help you?”

Lady Smallwood took a deep breath as she again took her seat on the guest chair. “Recently, Magnussen testified before a committee I chair. He apparently took exception to the vigour with which I pursued my responsibilities.” She sniffed and lifted her chin. “He approached me. In my club, after the hearing.”

“That’s inappropriate, right?” John asked. “It’s not on to try to tamper with testimony. People get in trouble for that sort of thing all the time.”

“Yes, but Mr Magnussen believes he is above all of that.” She sighed. “And who knows, he may very well be.”

John frowned. “Please, go on.”

“Well.” Lady Smallwood visibly steeled herself. “Magnussen wanted me to drop my inquiry. In return, he said, he would see to it that certain incriminating information that had recently come into his possession would never see the light of day.”

John blinked. “But that’s—“

“Blackmail,” rumbled Sherlock. “It’s blackmail.” He looked up from the floor at John, still carefully expressionless. “Magnussen is an expert at it, and he’s got an impressive network of informants. If he were to be honest, he could trace much of his success to his skill at acquiring private information on celebrities and officials.” He briefly rubbed a hand along his brow. “He’s ruthless about using it.”

“Yes. And that’s why I’m here, gentlemen.” Lady Smallwood rose to standing, and both men stood with her. She gave them an even, steely look. “I need you to stop this. I need you to stop Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Wait a minute,” John said slowly. “Forgive me, Lady Smallwood, but we are a small agency. We aren’t even close to…”

“We’ll take the case,” Sherlock interrupted, grim-faced, offering Lady Smallwood his hand. “Please leave us your contact information, and send us anything you have you feel might be relevant.” He took her by the elbow and escorted her to the office door. She stopped and turned to face him, her eyes searching his face.

“You know I work with your brother,” she said quietly. “I didn’t tell him I was coming. I wouldn’t have asked you if I had any other—"

“I know, Lady Smallwood. As soon as I heard you come in, I knew this wasn’t a coincidence.” He smiled faintly. “We will not fail you. Now, go home. Get some rest. We’ll be in touch soon.”

She sighed in relief. “Thank you. I knew I could—thank you.” She nodded to John and gave Sherlock one last thankful smile.

Sherlock stood in the open doorway and watched her leave. He looked sad, John thought, and more than a little angry.

Sherlock didn’t say another word for the rest of the afternoon.

XXX

John was sitting at the desk, staring out the window at the rain as it fell on the back garden. The grey chill seemed to seep through the glass, and he shivered. He thought yet again about how many times he had sat in the deserts of Afghanistan and felt desperate for a day of gentle rain like this, and wondered idly if he would ever take London weather for granted again.

The door to the office opened behind him, and he turned and smiled in greeting as Mrs Hudson manoeuvred into the room with the tea tray. The smile grew wider as he caught the scent of the chocolate biscuits on the delicate plate.

She handed him a cup of tea, and he nodded his thanks as she settled into the guest chair. “Lovely, Mrs Hudson, you have a gift,” he said, winking over his cup. His gaze wandered to the other side of the partners’ desk. “Where’s Sherlock?" 

She sat down on the guest chair with a contented sigh. “He mumbled something about his tailor and said he’d be back in a couple of hours. Why?”

“Just wondering,” John said offhandedly. “I like to have some warning he’s coming. Like a hurricane.”

Mrs Hudson smiled over her teacup. “You like him,” she said softly.

John started. “What? No!” He stared at her, but she lifted an eyebrow and met his gaze directly.

“You like him,” she said again, firmer this time.

After a moment, he sighed and nodded. “Maybe.” He frowned to himself. “But he’s very easy to like, then, isn’t he.”

“No, John,” she corrected him gently. “He’s really not. He’s easy to look at, but not to like.” She smiled then. “You just like him.” 

He rubbed his face with both hands. “It doesn’t matter, Mrs Hudson. Have you looked at him? I mean, really looked at him? He’s flawless.” He shook his head. “And then his brain, Christ. He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met.” He sighed deeply. “No one that intelligent, with that body, who looks like _that_ , is ever going to look twice at someone like me. He could have anyone he wants.”

Mrs Hudson took a sip of her tea and hummed. “He doesn’t have anybody, though, does he,” she observed blandly. “He races over here after modelling sessions, texts you on his breaks, spends every day off he can get here, and then goes home alone to his hideous flat. He showed me pictures, you know. Abstract modern art and too many mirrors. It’s all brushed steel and grey tile and _edges_.” She shivered. “I’m sure that place just echoes. It looked _cold_.”

John looked down at his hands. “Well. It’s how he wanted it, isn’t it. Maybe he just likes a clean space. This—“ he motioned around the room. “This is not a clean space. This is cluttered, and chaotic, and…“

“Alive,” Mrs Hudson said, her eyes twinkling. She leaned across the desk and patted his hand. “Look. I don’t know the man well at all, but I’m not blind. His eyes follow you. He’s intelligent, brilliant, in fact, and brusque, and impatient as anything, but he stops to listen carefully to every word you say. This detective lark may have started as a way to be taken seriously by his family, or maybe even by the world, but I think—“ She winked. “Now, he most of all wants to be taken seriously by you.” She stood and straightened her skirt. “Just think about it, is all I’m saying.”

She left the office, closing the door behind her, and sat down hard in her office chair. She took a breath and held it, and then let it go all in a rush. “Men are _idiots_ ,” she confided to the houseplant on her desk. The plant didn’t argue.

XXX 

Text (John to Sherlock): _Will you be back soon? Courier just arrived with information re Lady Smallwood’s case. JW_

_On my way. Did you read through it? -SH_

_Briefly. Looks like something to do with her husband. JW_

_That’s what I expected. Lord Smallwood is known for having several petty vices. She’s the better in that relationship. -SH_

_How do you know all of this stuff? JW_

_Lady Smallwood works with my brother. He’s an incorrigible gossip. It’s one of his more endearing traits. -SH_

_Is that how you knew Magnussen is a blackmailer? JW_

_…_

_Sherlock? JW_

_…_

_Hello? JW_

 

XXX 

Sherlock flipped through the file, shaking his head and muttering. “Idiot,” he said finally, tossing the pages back across the partners’ desk in some disgust. “A fifteen year old girl. What the hell was he thinking?”

“She looked older,” John said blandly, as he considered a photograph. “Lady Smallwood seems to believe the matter was confined to emails and texts.”

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow. “And what do you believe, Doctor Watson?”

John looked up and mirrored his expression. “Why, I believe our clients are as pure as the driven snow, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock smirked. “A wise approach.” He rubbed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter, really. The correspondence is damning, even if the relationship was unconsummated.”

“True.” John put the photo down and regarded him seriously. “So what do we do now?”

Sherlock stood and stretched, straining the buttons on his pale blue silk dress shirt. John’s eyes widened and he quickly looked back down to the file. “Well, I think there’s nothing for it. We’re going to have to go confront Magnussen.” He hesitated briefly, biting his lip. “John, I was thinking, maybe I should do this alone.”

John looked up in surprise. “Really? Why?” 

Sherlock shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I thought maybe he’d be more willing to talk if there was just one of us.”

John flushed. “Sherlock, tell me the truth. Are you ashamed of me?”

“No! No, that’s not it at all.” Sherlock seemed upset by the suggestion. “I was just thinking that he might be more willing to have a chat with one celebrity model than two private detectives.” 

“Listen—“ John scowled. “You took this case, which means _we_ took this case. We are _partners_. We do this together. Besides, you said it yourself. Your brain works better when I’m around.” 

Sherlock winced. “Yes, but—“

John narrowed his eyes. “Sherlock, what is this really about?”

Sherlock stared back at him briefly, then sighed. “Fine. Fine, come along, but—please. Let me do the talking.”

John snorted. “Like you ever let me get a word in anyway.” He frowned, concerned, as Sherlock once again rubbed his eyes. “Hey, you all right? What’s with the eyes?”

“Hm? Oh. Nothing.” Sherlock dropped his hands. “It’s nothing. Just…didn’t sleep much last night.”

John smiled thinly. “Another wild party?”

Sherlock looked away. “Something like that.”

XXX 

The tall glass and steel monstrosity that was the headquarters of CAM Global News loomed above them. Outside the building, office workers walked or sat in the feeble London afternoon sun. A few yards from the enormous glass doors, John clutched Sherlock’s arm and dragged him off to a small space next to a newsstand.

John glanced around to make sure they were alone. “So what’s the plan, then?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. 

Sherlock looked down at him, confused. “Why are you talking like that?”

John leaned back to look up at him. “Because…it’s a secret. We’re doing something in secret. Undercover. Right? I mean, we can’t just walk in there.”

“We can’t?”

“No. At the very least, we’ll need a story for Magnussen’s PA.” 

Sherlock looked uncertain. “If you say so. I’m pretty sure they’ll know who I am, though.”

“Why?”

Sherlock blindly reached behind him to grab a magazine from the newsstand’s display. He held it up, displaying an artistic, moody black and white picture of his face in an advertisement for high-end Italian oxfords on the back cover. “Well, to begin, I’m fairly certain that Magnussen wears shoes.” 

John rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean he’ll recognise you on sight, you know. Not everyone knows you, even in the media world.” He motioned to the lunchtime crowd milling around them. “As a matter of fact, I’d wager that no one here—“

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Sherlock Holmes?” a man’s strong voice said behind them. Sherlock and John turned to see a large, heavily muscled man in jeans, a hardhat and construction gear looking at them hopefully. “It is, right?”

“Well, yes. I am.”

The man’s face broke into a wide smile. “Wow, great! Um, would you mind autographing this?” He handed Sherlock a copy of the same magazine and dug a pen out of his jacket. “I’m just such a big fan.”

Sherlock signed the magazine with a practiced flourish and sent the man away with thanks. He turned back to John with a smirk. “All right, John, you were just telling me how no one would recognize me.”

John smirked back. “Maybe he just liked those shoes.”

Sherlock pretended to consider. “Could be, I suppose. They _were_ nice shoes.”

John looked at the picture. “They look like it. Did you get to wear them, or just look at them longingly?”

“I’m not a foot model, John. There are specialists for that.”

“Right. I suppose I should have known.”

Sherlock quirked a smile. “Besides, my feet are too big to sell shoes. That’s why I model underwear.”

“Right. Then what—oh.” John paused. “Is that innuendo?” he asked cautiously.

Sherlock grinned. “We were discussing your plan, John.”

John clapped his mouth shut and definitely did not glance at Sherlock’s crotch. “Um--yeah. Plan. Ah. Yes. Well, all right. Let’s see.” John pursed his lips, considering. “How about this. You’re a model, sure, but you’re getting bored with it, and you’re beginning to think about the next step in your career. The Smallwood story fell into your lap, work gossip or something, and you thought you could use it as a springboard to start your own magazine. Yeah, that’s it,” he said, warming to his own idea. “You could play dumb, like you don’t know he has the story, too, and you’ve just come to him for ideas because he’s, I don’t know, the best or something, and…” He cut himself off as he noticed Sherlock looking at him with a fond smile. “What?”

“Nothing. I just like watching how much you like doing this.”

John blushed. “Oh.”

Sherlock smiled at him a moment longer, and then slowly turned back toward the building. The smile faded. “I think there’s really only one way to do this: we go inside, introduce ourselves, and politely but firmly ask Magnussen to give us Lady Smallwood’s letters.”

“That’s it?” John asked, quizzically.

Sherlock gave a definite nod. “Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’re sure this doesn’t call for something more, well, subtle?”

Sherlock blinked down at him. “Magnussen destroys people for fun, John. He is not known for subtlety.”

“All right, then.” They started to make their way toward the building. “I’ll just follow your lead, then, shall I?”

“It would probably be best.” Sherlock stopped to take a deep breath. “John, if he—“

John paused and turned to face him. “If he what, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before lowering his eyes with a tiny shake of his head. “Nothing.”

They entered the lobby and approached the front desk. Sherlock started to speak, but the receptionist looked up at him with a bland smile and pointed toward a single elevator protected by an ominous looking security guard. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, 40th floor, please. We’ll put in the access code here. Mr Magnussen has been expecting you.” 

“So much for subtlety,” Sherlock muttered. 

XXX

The elevator doors opened into an empty space. There were no walls or carpets, just concrete floors, coiled wires, and stale, dusty air stretching out to the streaky windows. The only lighting was a single fluorescent strip over a cluttered desk, with a sleek black desk chair behind it. John and Sherlock stepped out, and the lift doors chimed and closed behind them. There was no sign of anyone else around.

They stood there silently for a full minute. “What’s going on here, Sherlock?” John finally whispered.

“Be patient,” Sherlock replied calmly. “He’s trying to get us off balance, play with our minds a little. It’s a common negotiating technique.”

“We’re stranded on the 40th floor of a skyscraper with no one else around, Sherlock,” John hissed back. “I’m feeling pretty off balance. I think it's working.”

Sherlock shushed him and started walking slowly toward the desk. “Mr Magnussen?” he said calmly. “I believe you were expecting us.” He stopped a few feet in front of the desk and stood calmly, his bored gaze fixed on a spot behind the desk.

“Gentlemen!” A man’s deep voice rang out behind them. John jumped and turned to face the sound, suddenly on full alert. A tall man, finely featured and with a cold smile that did not reach his eyes, stepped out from an alcove next to the lift.“So sorry to keep you waiting.” He took a moment to look John up and down, with a tiny lift of his lip that clearly wanted to become a sneer. “You took longer than I expected. Did you find the place all right?” he asked in a polite tone. His gaze shifted over to where Sherlock still stood motionless before the desk, and his eyes narrowed. The very tip of his tongue appeared briefly between his lips and then vanished.

John shook his head, a false chuckle in his throat. “Good lord, you gave me a start. Mr Magnussen, I presume? John Watson.” he said, raising his brows and holding out a friendly hand.

The man’s gaze flickered briefly down to John’s hand, and then back to where Sherlock was standing. “Hmm. Yes.” He turned a quarter turn on his heel and started walking slowly toward the desk with measured steps. His motions seemed almost predatory, and John suppressed a shudder as he dropped his hand.

Magnussen stepped around the desk in his unhurried pace and slowly turned to face Sherlock where he stood. “Mr Holmes, I presume.” His gaze slid slowly down Sherlock’s body, and even more slowly back up until the two men’s eyes finally met. Magnussen gave a smile that was more of a press of his thin lips. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” He cocked his head in a parody of coyness. “I’ve certainly seen your picture in my magazines enough times.”

Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgment. “Mr Magnussen,” he said coolly, as he let his eyes roam around the room. “Nice place you have here.”

Magnussen threw back his head and laughed, a sound with no humour in it, as he pulled out the desk chair and sat. “Why, Mr Holmes. You of all people should know that setting the mood is everything.” He pointed a long finger toward the floor. “Below us is a public space, a place for meetings and negotiations. The offices are furnished with lovely but uncomfortable Danish sofas and impractical clean glass tables. There is abundant, expensive modern art on the walls, soothing, perhaps, but otherwise without merit. The carpets are thick and the steel fairly gleams. And oh, so many mirrors. But you know the look.” Magnussen raised innocent eyes to Sherlock’s face. “I mean, I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

John narrrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Sherlock remained impassive, still looking blandly just over Magnussen’s head. 

Magnussen smirked. “In the offices below, people pretend to be something they aren’t, and I have given them a space that lets them think they are being taken seriously. However, this floor--” He motioned around the cold, empty space. “This is where the real work gets done. If it matters, it happens on this desk, on this phone, and in my head. There are no spies around, no one to read over my shoulder, no one to accidentally overhear something they shouldn’t. People aren’t brought to this floor to play games. They are brought to this floor to do business.” He leaned back in this chair and clasped his hands under his chin. “So I believe you have a proposal, Mr Holmes. I would like to hear it.”

Sherlock lowered his gaze and looked directly at Magnussen. “You have documents of some importance to Lady Elisabeth Smallwood. We have been asked to open negotiations to ensure their immediate return.”

Magnussen’s eyes opened wide. “Well, well. Very direct, Mr Holmes. I can appreciate this approach. Tell me, what do _you_ have to offer in return?”

John stepped up behind him. “ _He_ has nothing to offer you,” he said firmly. “ _We_ are here on behalf of Lady Smallwood.”

Magnussen’s gaze slid slowly over to John. Sherlock's breath caught, and he clenched one fist behind him, but otherwise he maintained his disinterested demeanour.

“John Watson,” Magnussen said slowly. “You know, Dr Watson, you surprise me, and that doesn’t happen very often.”

John arched an eyebrow. “How so?” 

Magnussen smiled that cold smile and reached for a file on the desk. “I have almost nothing on you,” he said, wonderingly, as he flipped through the pages. “It’s astonishing, really. Usually, by the time you’ve been invited to the 40th floor, I can recite your life story. For example, I have all kinds of details on Mr Holmes, here. I have a virtual warehouse of data on his brother. But for you, I have only the basics. Name, rank, and serial number, isn’t that what they say? Tell me, Doctor,” he said, his smile dropping. “Have I just been napping, or are you really this boring?”

“He’s boring,” Sherlock answered promptly. “He’s no one of consequence, Mr Magnussen.” He took a step forward, momentarily blocking John from Magnussen’s view. “You’d do better to concentrate on me.”

Magnussen leaned back in his chair, looking at Sherlock’s face with curiosity. “Hmm. I’m not sure about that. After all, you’ve chosen to work with him.” He crossed his lips with a thoughtful finger. “There must be _something_ to him.”

Sherlock forced a laugh. “I assure you, there is not. Dr Watson is my _least_ valuable employee. He’s a placeholder, nothing more.” He rolled his eyes. “If you saw his taste in clothing, you’d understand.”

“Then—“ Magnussen shifted his cold stare to John, who was looking at the back of Sherlock’s head with confusion and hurt in his eyes. “Why is he here?” he asked softly. 

Sherlock sniffed and lifted his chin. “I needed a driver,” he said carelessly. “Can we focus on important matters now?” He stepped around to the side of Magnussen’s desk and leaned in. “What do you want for Lady Smallwood’s letters?”

Magnussen locked eyes with him for a long moment. “You are delightful, Mr Holmes,” he said at last. “Courageous, resourceful, loyal, and certainly beautiful.” He tilted his head, maintaining his impassive stare. “Yes, I can almost see what he likes about you.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brow in confusion. “What who likes about me? John?” He shook his head. “I told you, John is of no importance here.” 

Magnussen smiled his cold smile. “Isn’t he, though,” he murmured. He stood suddenly and offered his hand. “Go home, Mr Holmes. I’ll call Lady Smallwood and tell her you’ve successfully convinced me to return the letters and let her be.”

Sherlock blinked, and looked down at his hand, bemused. “And you’ll not reveal her husband’s indiscretions? I’m not sure I understand.”

Magnussen stretched his hand a bit farther. His smile broadened. “It’s a good business decision. There’s no point in alienating such an august personage.” He shrugged. “And one more inquiry won’t change a thing for me, not really. I’ll tell her that you were most persuasive in convincing me it wasn’t worth the hassle.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer. “Then I must thank you, Mr Magnussen. I appreciate your time.” He finally reached out his own hand, and Magnussen smiled widely as he took it.

Magnussen held on just a moment too long, and Sherlock pulled away with some force. Magnussen looked down at his hand and rubbed his fingers with his thumb, as though appreciating a texture. “It was a pleasure to finally get to meet you, Mr Holmes.” He shifted his gaze to John and narrowed his eyes. “And the good Dr Watson, of course.”

He turned and pushed a button under his desk, and the lift chimed and opened. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, with a nod toward the lift. Sherlock gave a tiny bow in farewell, and they stepped inside. Just as the doors began to close, Magnussen raised one long finger toward the sky. “Oh, and Sherlock…" 

Sherlock caught the closing door with one hand. “Yes?”

“I know you took the train,” he whispered with a wink.

Sherlock gave a gasp of surprise. He quickly pulled his hand back, and the doors slid closed. They began their rapid descent.

When they reached the lobby, John barrelled from the lift, Sherlock close on his heels. “John? John, wait…” Sherlock said quietly as they passed through the doors.

Outside, John turned sharply and stopped. Sherlock froze at the look on his face. “You needed a _driver_?” John asked, hand clenched into a fist, his words dripping with ice. "How about a boot black?"

“John, no. Listen. No, listen to me,” Sherlock said, quickly grabbing John’s arm as he started to turn away. “We needed--I wanted him to think you aren’t important to me.”

John wrenched his arm away. “Yes, well, we both got that message quite clearly. Well done.” He turned on his heel and started to stalk away. 

“Damn it, NO!” Sherlock said, darting around him and stopping him with a hand to his chest. “It didn’t work. He didn’t believe me at all. And now you're upset with me. You have to be careful.  _We_ have to be careful. I can't let this happen again.”

John knocked his hand to the side. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about? What aren't you telling me?”

Sherlock clasped his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Please, John. You have to let me explain.” His grip tightened, and John’s eyes grew wide as Sherlock’s voice caught. “Please.”

They stared at each other for a long minute until John bit his lip and nodded once, sharply. “Buy me a drink, then,” John said, quietly but firmly. “But this had better be good.”

XXX

Text (Magnussen to unknown, contact name JM): _You were right. -CAM_

_Of course. Do we have a deal, then?-M_

_Yes. I will get you what you need on the doctor, and you’ll be able to do what you need to. You’ll have to be prepared to move quickly, though. –CAM_

_Don’t worry. I’ve been ready for some time. –M_

_XXX_

_Text (Magnussen to unknown, contact name Lady S): I’ve decided to return your letters and drop the matter. Your envoy was quite convincing. –CAM_

_Just like that? You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit suspicious._

_Understandable. I’m afraid you’ll only know I’m serious when the matter never hits the news. But I’m giving you my assurance that as far as I’m concerned, the papers never existed. Expect a courier within the next two hours. -CAM_

_Well, I suppose I must be grateful that you have changed your mind. Thank you. I truly hope our paths never cross again._

_I regret that you feel that way, but I will make it so, if it is what you wish. –CAM_

_It is._

_Very well. Then this might be the last time we speak, so I must thank you as well. –CAM_

_For?_

_Quite by accident, you’ve brought me something much more diverting than your husband’s petty kinks. You’ve shown me the way clear to the heart of my greatest enemy. I’ll think of you ever so fondly as I watch him burn. Figuratively, of course. –CAM_

_…_

_Wait. What do you mean?_

_…_

_Mr Magnussen?_

 

XXX

“His name was Victor Trevor. I knew him from uni; we had several classes together, and somehow managed to become friends. Then we became, um, more than friends.” Sherlock took a long sip from his beer, and John’s eyes widened slightly as he took note of his friend’s shaking hand. “He invited me to visit his family in Norfolk one summer, and against my better instincts, I went.” Sherlock raised the glass to his lips again, and John looked down at the table.

“I see,” John said softly. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear. “His family was lovely. Very, um, accepting. They didn’t care that we shared a room. It was nice,” he said with distant surprise. “His uncle was an MP, and we had some fascinating discussions, but it was Victor’s father, especially, who seemed most taken with me. He was in the import/export business, quite successful. He invited me into his study nearly every day for a chat. I would deduce things about his partners or his competitors from letters, or bills, or from the business columns in the paper. I helped him interpret the markets. He was a good businessman. I made him quite a bit of money that summer.”

John nodded silently. Sherlock scowled down at his hands. 

“One day, we were sitting in his office having tea, and a messenger came in with an envelope. Victor’s father took one look at the contents, went deathly white, and ran out of the room. We didn’t have many secrets at that point, at least not that I knew of, so I picked up the paper and read it.“ He took another drink. “It was a blackmail demand. From Magnussen, John.”

John swallowed. “What did it say?” he whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes were dark. “It was in code, if you can believe it. A simple skip code. I deciphered it without even trying. Basically, Magnussen had found out about that Victor’s father was having an affair, and was threatening to reveal everything unless Victor’s father used his influence on his MP brother. There was some legislation he wanted defeated, and Victor’s uncle was a key player. 

“I had known about the affair, of course, deduced it the first day, but I had kept it to myself. I knew nothing could ultimately be proven. So I jumped to my feet and prepared to run after him, to tell him that, but just as I reached the study door, a cry went up from the dining room. Victor’s father had suffered a massive coronary.” Sherlock swallowed. “There was nothing to be done,” he finished softly.

“My god,” John murmured quietly.

Sherlock sighed. “Victor was incredibly upset, as you can imagine, almost irrationally so. When he saw me standing there with the letter, he assumed I had told his father something that had shocked him. He screamed at me, called me a murderer and worse, and threw me out of the house himself. His mother tried to intervene, but to no avail.” Sherlock looked away. “I never got to explain.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said with a rush of breath. “No wonder you were upset today. You should have told me. I could have handled Magnussen.”

Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head, and John was shocked to see a bright sheen to his eyes. “John…that’s not why I was upset today.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “There was something else?”

Sherlock was pale now. “I’ve told you a little about my brother and what he does, right?” John nodded, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s hands were shaking in earnest now, but his voice was still steady. “Well, a few days after Victor’s father died, he summoned me to his office. He was—well. I’ve never seen him so angry.” He sighed deeply. “Magnussen had apparently learned of my involvement with Victor’s family and done his research. He had sent him pictures of Victor and me, um. In private moments.” 

“Oh, no,” John said faintly.

Sherlock nodded. “Worse, in some of those private moments, we were, well. Indulging. In, um, chemical substances. Of, uh, dubious legality.”

“Drugs,” John murmured, shutting his eyes tight. “He got pictures of you and your boyfriend doing drugs.”

Sherlock nodded again. “Yes.” He looked defeated. “Magnussen was putting pressure on my brother to end that legislation. Mycroft was livid. As he saw it, I was risking not only my own health, but the integrity of the family, and the security of the commonwealth. He sent me away. Right then. Rehab, and then an extended tour of the continent with some rather unpleasant companions of his choosing.” He sighed deeply, rubbing his finger absently along the edge of his glass. “Victor’s father’s funeral took place while I was gone. I’ll never forgive Mycroft for that. I didn’t even get to send flowers.”

“Christ, Sherlock—“John said gently. “You know that’s all crap, right? Your brother was holding you to an impossible standard. You were young. You were in love. You wanted to get laid. None of that was wrong. OK, maybe you could have skipped the drugs, but—“

Sherlock huffed. “What were you doing at nineteen, John? Studying medicine? Reserve medical corps weekends? Volunteering with the Boy Scouts?” He smiled sadly down into his beer. “I was a wastrel then, and I’m not much better now.”

“You’re clean,” John said with some heat.

Sherlock shrugged. “True. But Magnussen could trot out those old stories any time he wants. It wouldn’t hurt my career, or me, but it could definitely hurt Mycroft. I’m a spear aimed right at his heart.” He shook his head sadly, not making eye contact. “John, what I said today—you _know_ I didn’t mean any of it. I was just trying to keep you off Magnussen’s radar. I didn’t want him to know that--” He flushed. “You’ve become important to me.”

“Oh,” John said softly.

Sherlock looked up into John’s face, expression suddenly fierce. “He can say whatever he wants about me. I’m ready for that. But you’ve never done _anything_ wrong. I don’t want you damaged by your association with me.”

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Sherlock, if you think I care about…”

“I care,” Sherlock cut in sharply. “He can use me to get to my brother, but I won’t let him hurt you to get to me.” His voice caught. “This could be bad, John. He’s a monster. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.” He blinked hard and looked away. 

John swallowed. “Sherlock…did you ever talk to Victor again?”

“No,” Sherlock said flatly. He threw back the rest of his beer and signalled for two more. “I tried once, a couple of years ago. He said some things—well.” He tried to smile and failed. “Best to put those things behind us.” He held up his beer in a toast. “So here’s to Lady Elisabeth Smallwood. May she live in domestic bliss.” He took a drink. “And may Charles Augustus Magnussen move on to other projects.”

John held up his own glass. “Or, alternatively,” he said musingly, “he could burn in hell.”

Sherlock smiled then, and clinked John’s glass with his own. “That would work, too.” 

XXX

The following afternoon, John sat unmoving in the office, hands in his lap, staring blindly at the closed shades over the window. The door opened behind him, and Mrs Hudson walked in holding a cup of tea, a cheery smile on her face. He didn’t turn to welcome her. She took one look at him and the smile faded. She closed the door behind her and quickly crossed the room to put a soft hand on his shoulder. “What’s happened, love?” she asked quietly.

John sat still for a long moment. “He was in love once,” he said finally. “He loved someone, and then someone else died. He got blamed for it, and he’s been alone ever since. Really, truly alone.” He turned to face her, eyes wide. “It was Magnussen’s fault, Mrs Hudson. He doesn’t care who he hurts, and Sherlock is convinced he’s going to come for me next.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m nothing, I’m _nobody_ , but I’m the closest that man has had to anything in a very long time, and now he’s terrified he’s going to lose me too.” John turned back to stare again at the window. “I don’t know how to make him see,” he said, almost to himself.

Mrs Hudson reached up to smooth his hair. “See what?” she said gently.

John squeezed his hands into fists on the desk. “That it doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “He doesn’t have to protect me. I’m not afraid of Magnussen. There are things I’ve had to do that I’m not proud of, but there’s nothing he could do that would make me walk away from Sherlock. Nothing.”

Mrs Hudson blinked, her eyes suspiciously bright, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. “I think you could tell him just that, dear, and it would be a fine start.”

John looked up at her sharply, but after a moment his face softened. “You’re right,” he said simply. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs Hudson, and that’s what I’m going to do.” His gaze slid to Sherlock’s empty chair. “Where is he, anyway?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. He came by this morning, said he was picking something up. I offered him some tea, but he said he didn’t have time. Strange, because he always likes my tea.” She raised a hand to her face. “He did stop and kiss my cheek on the way out. That was nice.”

“Hmm. Do I have competition?” he said with a sly smile. “Only I know you won’t fight fair.”

“Oh, you.” She batted him on the back of the head. “Teasing an old lady. It isn’t decent." 

He ducked, laughing. “Sorry! Sorry, I’m just—“

“Excited,” she finished for him. She grinned as she tapped him on the nose. 

“Dr Watson,” she said with a wink, “Go get our boy.”

XXX

Text (John to Sherlock): _Are you home? I need to talk to you. JW_

_…_

_Sherlock? Please. It’s important. JW_

_…_

_OK, guess you’re busy. Text me when you can. JW_

 

XXX

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile when he saw John’s text. He was crouched in the stairwell between the 39th and 40th floors of the CAM Global News building, with John’s gun in his waistband of his trousers. _Busy indeed_ , he thought.

He activated his phone’s flashlight app and took stock of his immediate surroundings. The floor was downright dirty, but he couldn’t see any footprints or scuffs in the dust. That was a relief, he thought. He’d prefer not to encounter any unplanned-for company. There was a camera mounted in the corner above the door, but there was no red light or other sign of connection. He supposed that made sense. Magnussen wouldn’t believe anyone could get this far without being noticed by security.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He did so appreciate the element of surprise.

He climbed the last few stairs in silence and stopped at the door to listen closely. The concrete floors of Magnussen’s office (for lack of a better term) did not lend themselves to quiet; he could hear voices, if not words. One voice, obviously Magnussen’s, arrogant, certain, and the other—

A woman’s.

Sherlock very slowly pulled the door open an inch and leaned his ear to the crack. 

“…insist you tell me what you meant, Mr Magnussen,” said the woman’s voice in a cultured accent.

_Lady Smallwood._

“You said your ‘greatest enemy,’ she continued. “The only person that could be is Mycroft Holmes.”

( _Deep breath. Hold it. Listen and act, don’t feel_.)

“You have to know,” Lady Smallwood continued, with only the slightest hesitation. “I will stop you. I won’t let him be hurt.” 

A chair ( _there’s only one on this floor_ ) creaked. 

“Why do you care?” Magnussen said, almost too softly to hear ( _he’s toying with her, drawing her in more closely_ ). “Mycroft Holmes is a threat to you. With him gone, your power would expand exponentially. I am giving you a valuable gift, with no strings attached.” Creak. “I would think you’d be grateful.”

“I am not.” ( _Controlled, but under duress._ ) “Mycroft Holmes is a man of honour, someone who has repeatedly proven himself to have only the interests of the country at heart. We may not see eye to eye, but—“

“Oh, my dear Lady Smallwood, your loyalty is misplaced. Mycroft Holmes is a _prick_.” ( _Angered at her defence of him. Expected something different.)_ “He’s a manipulative bastard. He’s pure ego, and has accumulated more power than any one man should have. He needs to be stopped.” 

Lady Smallwood sniffed. “Sounds like someone else of my acquaintance.” ( _Sharp intake of breath. He’s about to attack._ )

 _Enough_.

Sherlock stepped through the doorway and let the door groan shut behind him. He walked crisply around the lift and confidently into view, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. Lady Smallwood was pale but composed, dressed for once in casual clothes.

“I rather agree with you for once, Mr Magnussen. My brother _is_ a prick, if you’ll forgive me,” he said, with a respectful nod toward Lady Smallwood. “I can’t say I’d mind seeing him taken down a peg or two. However, I am a bit concerned about your methods. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to be collateral damage.”

Magnussen was nearly snarling ( _surprised, excellent_ ). “How the hell did you get by security?” he hissed.

Sherlock opened his eyes wide. “Oh, do you have security?” he asked innocently. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Magnussen started to push to his feet, but Lady Smallwood stepped forward and held out a hand in each direction. “Gentlemen. We are having a civilised discussion. Control yourselves, please.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on Magnussen, but he directed his comments to Lady Smallwood. “With all due respect, Madam,” he said in a polite tone, “I don’t generally consider coercion and blackmail topics for ‘civilised discussion.’”

Magnussen leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering. “Ah, but you do make space for sodomy and heroin. That’s an interesting moral code you have there.”

Sherlock dropped his smile. “Not heroin. Not anymore. I’m sure your files show that,” he said, with a nod toward the desk. “And despite what you seem to think, my private life is _private_. It hurts no one. It is no business of yours.”

Magnussen smiled then, again in control. “So you think. You can do whatever you like, of course, but it’s not my fault if your—friends, shall we say?—wind up in the line of fire. It’s something you might want to consider.” He hummed thoughtfully. “You see, Mr Holmes, I earned my position by staying focussed. Keeping my eye on the target, whether it’s a business I’m taking over, or a rival I’m engaging in negotiations.” He spread his hands with a shrug. “It’s true you can’t plan for every eventuality. Like with your little friend from Norfolk. Trevor, wasn’t it? I could never have expected his father to die. That was messy,” he said, pursing his lips ruefully. “But the point was, I needed that legislation quashed. Victor’s father was the most direct means to that end.”

“But you failed,” Sherlock said coldly. “When he died, your access to the MP died as well.”

Magnussen looked at him with an air of polite surprise. “Failed? I didn’t fail, Mr Holmes. The legislation went away. Vanished into thin air.” He made a scattering gesture, like fireworks exploding. “As it turns out, Mycroft Holmes is _very_ protective of his younger brother.” He gave Sherlock another smile, this one full of ice. “You inspire the men around you to desperate acts, Mr Holmes. Why is that?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched briefly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, in a poor imitation of nonchalance.

“No, no, I’m sure you don’t. Please allow me to enlighten you.” He stood then and gestured at his desk. “I don’t normally work as a consultant, as you are probably aware. I have more than enough to do, managing my own interests. But I do have many far-ranging acquaintances, and they make professional enquiries from time to time.” Magnussen lifted an eyebrow. “I always listen. I wouldn’t want to alienate anyone that I might need some day.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock intoned, drily.

“It really is. It’s amazing what motivates people when they reach a certain level. Money, power—when you have those things in abundance, other needs rise to the surface. For example, I’ve been approached by someone with a very pronounced personal interest in you.”

“Me?” Sherlock asked, shocked out of his disinterest. 

“Yes, you.” Magnussen shrugged. “I don’t necessarily see the appeal, but I’m not one to judge. This person approached me with an intriguing offer: he would give me the means to destroy Mycroft Holmes. We talked, and as it turned out, his idea was a good one.” He spread his hands wide. “Child’s play. No risk, all reward.”

There was a pause. Sherlock stared at him, and Lady Smallwood looked between them. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Ah. Very well, I’ll spell it out.” Magnussen inclined his head in Sherlock’s direction. “I already knew Mycroft’s weakness was his junkie brother. That’s you, Mr Holmes. I only needed to get to you. But how could I?” Magnussen put on an exaggerated frown. “I had already tried to use photos of you drugged up with another man, and it worked, but only to a certain extent. As a model, drugs and sex only add to your allure, and your family has gained enough eminence to withstand such a scandal. No,” he continued thoughtfully. “What I needed was someone you cared enough about to want to protect, someone I could threaten. And voila!” he said with a flourish. “Enter Dr John Watson. I couldn’t have asked for better.”

Sherlock bared his teeth. “Leave. Him. Alone,” he said with his jaw clenched. 

“All right, I will,” Magnussen said simply. “Just tell your brother to resign.”

Sherlock glared and growled faintly. Lady Smallwood glanced at him before concern before turning back to Magnussen. “Who is this other person? And what do they want?”

“The simple answer is, he wants him,” Magnussen said with a dismissive sneer and a jerk of chin toward Sherlock. “He seems to think the doctor is all that’s in his way, but that’s no concern of mine. I believe he is of a similar mind as to the myriad benefits of having Mycroft gone as well. Great minds think alike, you know.”

Sherlock’s mouth moved silently for a moment. “You can’t,” he managed finally. “John has done nothing to _anyone_. He’s a war hero, for god’s sake.” 

“Ah, war hero, war criminal, two sides of the same coin,” Magnussen said sagely. “It’s not as easy a sell as the father’s affair would have been, or as your husband’s paedophilia would have been, Lady Smallwood, but—“ he sighed with regret. “One must work with what one has.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re a monster,” he said with disgust. He took a deep breath, and pulled himself up to his full height. “You torture the innocent and protect the wicked. You are holding the British government hostage to your own whims. You are _evil_.”

“I am selfish,” Magnussen countered with a grin. “And I have means, and the courage to use them. That’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he rose to his feet, “I have a press release to arrange.”

“No.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “No. You can’t be allowed to continue.” He reached behind his back and began to draw the gun from his waistband. Lady Smallwood’s eyes grew wide and she leapt to stop him.

“You can’t,” she said, grabbing his hand as he pulled it from behind him. The gun flashed in the fluorescent light and Magnussen’s eyes widened in alarm. “You can’t do this, Mr Holmes.”

“Lady Smallwood…” Sherlock said between his teeth, trying to shake loose.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t let him drive you to this. Don’t let him turn you into this. It’s not your job to stop him.”

Sherlock stared at her with wild eyes for a moment, before he sagged, shaking his head in defeat.

“It’s mine,” she said with resolve, and with a single smooth motion, she pulled the gun from his hand, turned, and fired.

XXX

Text message (John to Sherlock): _It’s late. Haven’t heard from you. You OK? JW_

_I am now. Thank you. –SH_

_There you are. Are you home? JW_

_Headed there shortly. I’ve got an important call to make first. Need to give an old friend some news. -SH_

_Good news, I hope? JW_

_I think so. An old debt settled. –SH_

_Well, good luck. I’ll catch up with you later? JW_

_Sounds good. –SH_

 

XXX 

The taxi stopped in front of a sleek apartment building in an affluent street in Chelsea. John stepped out and looked up at the structure in front of him, appreciating its sleek lines and dramatic lighting. A shiver of anticipation passed through his body, and he smiled, nearly laughing in the face of his nervousness. With a single, almost defiant nod to himself, he proceeded to the building entrance and managed to slip through the door behind a departing stylishly dressed couple.

The lift to the top floor seemed to take forever.

At Sherlock’s door, John ran his hands through his hair and quickly moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. He checked that his flies were closed, and nervously wiped his hands on his trousers. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

A shadow passed behind the peephole. It was only another moment before the door cracked open, and a handsome, smiling face came into view.

The face was not Sherlock’s.

“May I help you?” the man asked politely. He was tall and lean, with rich brown eyes and thick, wavy hair. John could appreciate the well-muscled chest that showed through the neckline of the blue silk dressing gown he wore. John’s attention was drawn to the initials “SH” monogrammed on the pocket in gold. Before he could stop himself, his eyes flicked downward. The man’s feet were bare, and he wasn’t wearing trousers under the robe.

“You must be looking for Sherlock,” the man said pleasantly, opening the door a bit wider. “I’m afraid he’s not available right now. Was he expecting you?”

John had to swallow before he could find his voice. “No, no, not expecting me,” he managed to get out, and he was distantly pleased that his voice sounded almost normal. “I’m John Watson, his—“

“Oh, the detective!” the man interjected, his smile widening into a grin. “He mentioned you before. I’m so glad to meet you.” He tilted his head, looking John up and down. “You’re not at _all_ what I expected,” he said, a twinkle coming into his eye.

“No, well, neither are you,” John said as he pasted on a polite smile. “And you are?”

“Oh, please forgive my manners. I’m sorry.” He offered a large hand. “Victor. I’m Victor Trevor. I know Sherlock from—“

“Uni,” John said quietly, shaking his hand. 

“Right,” Victor said with a nod. “Um, did you want to wait? He’s in the shower now. I’d tell you he’d be along quickly, but, well. He never is. Always been a real water hog, that one.”

“Ah,” John said, with a small shake of his head. Now he could hear the sound of the shower, and was that—was Sherlock _singing_? “Ah,” he said again. “Right. That wouldn’t—that won’t be necessary.”

Victor nodded in agreement. “Probably for the best. He had a hell of an afternoon, too, what with all the drama and his brother and everything. I’m sure he told you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t expect to see him too early tomorrow." 

John hummed neutrally.

They stood regarding each other for another few moments. “Well, if you’re—“ Victor finally said, hesitantly.

John started. “Oh! Right. Um, I’ll be off then. Well.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Good to meet you, uh, Victor.”

Victor smiled back at him warmly. “Good night, John. I’ll tell Sherlock you came by.”

The soft click of the closing door echoed in John’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great thanks to 221bJen, EnduringChill, and Kedgeree for their invaluable beta services and support. 
> 
> If you watched Moonlighting, you might remember the moment in the 3rd season (in the episode "Blonde on Blonde") when David goes to reveal his love to Maddie, and her former love (and astronaut) Mark Harmon answers the door. I had just turned 21 when that aired, and it was good timing, because I really needed a drink after that.
> 
> I'm sure those of you who know of my dark feelings about Viclock are questioning my sanity right now. You're right to do so. I am personally quite concerned.


End file.
